(JTalee 
Out  of 


Will 

* 


u|ii  i|H  ill  iiiiil  iiliiiiiillH! 

Ill  !  !  His; 

'*'    i  i     I   i  ;- 


TALES  OUT  OF  COURT 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


FICTION 

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TALES 
OUT  OF  COURT 


BY 

FREDERICK  TREVOR  HILL 

Author  of  ** The  Case  and  Exceptions*'  " The  Accomplice,'* 
"The  Web,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   IQ02,  BY 

P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

COPYRIGHT,   IQ04,   IQ08,  BY 

HARPER  BROTHERS 
COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   1907,  BY 
TTTV.  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


7 


o 


A 

Gen.  H.  E.  Wilkins;  Gen.  John  Carson;  Col.  D.  E.  McCarthy 
Col.  Daniel  Wentz;  Lt.-Col.  Ralph  Knode;  Lt.-Col.  A.  S. 
Peck;  Lt.-Col.  W.  B.  Greeley;  Lt.-Col.  Wm.  Hoy;  Lt.-Col.  T.  S. 
Woolsey;  Maj.  A.  L.  Dickerman;  Capt.  Jos.  Kittredge;  Capt. 
R  V  Lewis,  Jr.;  Capt.  Frederic  Vietor;  Capt.  Oliver  Porter* 
l*r  Lt.  H.  J.  Eberly;  1"  Lt.  W.  F.  Ramsdell;  #«*«  Lt.  T.  E. 
Finucane,  and  %<"»*  Lt.  Frank  Lawrence. 

De  la  part  du  raconteur. 

Sujet:  Dedication 

1.  Chacun  des  officiers  ci-dessns,  oamarades'du 
raconteur  dans  la  Force  Americaine  Exp&titionaire,  est  com- 
mande  de  choisir  dans  ce  volume  le  conte  quil  deteste  le  moins, 
etdele  bonsiderer  comme  dedie  d  lui-m&me,  avec  Vestime  la  plus 
haute  dn  raconteur. 

2.  Ce  travail  est  nec&saire  dans  le  service  ex- 
militaire. 


525705 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The  writer  begs  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy 
of  the  Editors  of  Harper's  Magazine,  the  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  Collier's  Weekly,  Smart  Set, 
Ainslee's,  Leslie's,  Success,  and  Everybody's  for 
permission  to  include  herein  stories  heretofore 
published  in  and  copyrighted  by  the  magazines 
above  noted. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  EXHIBIT  No.  2 i 

II  THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE       ....  18 

III  THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE       ....  35 

IV  Two  FISHERS  OF  MEN 50 

V  THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT    ....  61 

VI  THE  JUDGMENT  OF  His  PEERS      .     .     .  81 

VII  OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 90 

VIII  SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 107 

IX  THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION        .     .     .     .  124 

X  IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY      .     .  139 

XI  A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 157 

XII  THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN       .     .  173 

XIII  PEWEE  —  GLADIATOR 191 

XIV  PEREGRINE  PICKLE 200 

XV  CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG      ....  209 

XVI  WAR                                                           .  227 


TALES  OUT  OF  COURT 


TALES   OUT  OF  COURT 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

NO  one  but  an  advocate  could  have  fully 
appreciated  the  beauty  of  Butterfield's 
letter  to  Kaltenberg,  his  confederate. 
It  was  the  prettiest  piece  of  documentary  evidence 
I  had  ever  seen,  and  it  completed  the  proof 
against  Butterfield  with  the  finality  of  a  spring- 
lock  snapping  into  place.  But  the  Bank  had  no 
desire  to  take  its  case  into  court.  Its  purchase  of 
Butterfield's  Northern  Terminal  Bonds  did  not 
redound  to  the  directors'  credit,  and  the  moment 
the  Kaltenberg  letter  came  to  light  I  was  in 
structed  to  use  it  for  the  purpose  of  effecting  the 
quietest  possible  settlement. 

But,  though  I  fully  appreciated  the  wisdom  of 
confronting  Butterfield  with  the  proof  of  his 
fraud  and  giving  him  a  chance  to  make  private 
restitution,  my  professional  instincts  rebelled 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

against  putting  such  a  perfect  piece  of  evidence  to 
tame  uses.  It  was  so  overwhelmingly  damning — so 
irresistibly  convincing — so  dramatically  climac 
teric  that  I  positively  grieved  at  the  thought  of 
offering  it  on  the  altar  of  compromise  behind 
closed  doors.  My  office  associates  would  have 
complied  with  the  instructions  without  a  pang  of 
regret,  but  they  were  out  of  town,  and  it  thus  re 
mained  for  me — the  trial  lawyer  of  the  firm — to 
sacrifice  an  Exhibit  which  would  have  carried  any 
jury  by  storm. 

Small  wonder  then  that  I  dwelt  regretfully  on 
the  document  as  I  sandwiched  it  between  two 
sheets  of  glass,  as  is  usual  with  exhibits  of  im 
portance.  But  this  done,  I  despatched  a  note  to 
Mr.  Butterfield,  requesting  the  honor  of  an  im 
mediate  interview. 

I  did  not  know  Rodman  Butterfield  well,  but  I 
had  met  him  once  in  the  hey-day  of  his  prosperity 
at  a  dinner  where  he  and  his  wife  were  the  guests 
of  honor,  and  though  he  impressed  me  at  that  time 
as  an  aggressive  and  self-confident  individual  I 
had  no  reason  to  question  his  integrity.  His  man 
ners  were  not  over-refined,  but  he  had  a  certain 
amount  of  personal  magnetism,  and  his  face  was 
kindly  rather  than  shrewd  or  intellectual.  Phys 
ically  he  was  a  giant.  His  great  breadth  of 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

shoulders,  massive  body  and  limbs  suggested  an 
athlete,  but  an  athlete  coarsened  and  gone  to 
seed — the  beauty  of  his  brawn  transformed  to 
mere  bulk.  Doubtless  he  had  once  been  hand 
some,  but  his  wife  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  his 
past  athletic  prowess,  several  stories  of  which  she 
recounted  to  me,  during  the  evening,  with  evident 
pride. 

Mrs.  Butterneld  was  the  exact  opposite  of  her 
husband  in  almost  every  particular.  She  was 
delicate,  refined  and  altogether  charming.  But  her 
handsome,  patrician  face,  which  was  always  ani 
mated,  became  positively  radiant  when  her  eyes 
met  Butterneld' s.  Obviously  she  thought  her  hus 
band  not  only  the  strongest  and  bravest,  but  also 
the  best  and  most  remarkable  man  in  the  world, 
and  she  showed  this  in  a  hundred  charming  ways 
which  excited  my  interest  and  won  my  respect. 
Of  course  no  man  could  remain  oblivious  to  such 
unbounded  belief,  and  I  was  not  at  all  surprised 
to  observe  that  Butterneld  constantly  watched 
his  wife  in  an  effort  to  live  up  to  her  ideal  of  him. 
More  than  once  I  fancied  that  he  altered  certain 
of  his  stories  to  suit  her  ears,  and  otherwise 
played  for  her  approval,  all  of  which  convinced 
me  that  he  was  extremely  careful — if  not  afraid 
of  her.  But  I  liked  him  the  better  for  this, 

[3] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

and  knowing  that  it  is  easier  for  a  man  to  be  a 
hero  to  his  valet  than  a  wonder  to  his  wife,  I 
regarded  Mrs.  Butterfield's  unaffected  admira 
tion  as  the  strongest  possible  proof  of  her  hero's 
deserving.  I  was  yet  to  learn,  however,  that  a 
consummate  actor  was  lost  to  the  stage  when  Mr. 
Rodman  Butterfield  joined  the  ranks  of  the  pro 
moters. 

It  was  almost  two  years  after  this  casual  meet 
ing  that  I  called  at  Butterfield's  office  on  the 
Northern  Terminal  business.  Except  that  he  was 
a  trifle  bigger  in  body  and  coarser  in  feature  he 
had  not  changed  much  in  the  interval,  and  I  would 
have  known  him  anywhere.  But  the  expression  on 
his  face  as  he  glanced  up  from  my  card  convinced 
me  that  I  was  about  to  deal  with  a  very  different 
person  from  the  man  who  played  to  his  wife's 
piping  at  the  social  board. 

"I  don't  seem  to  know  you,"  he  began 
brusquely.  "However,  sit  down  and  let's  hear 
your  business." 

He  pointed  at  an  easy  chair  beside  the  desk  as 
he  spoke. 

I  had  nothing  to  gain  by  recalling  myself  to 
his  memory,  so  I  waived  the  question  of  our  hav 
ing  met  before  and  introduced  myself  officially, 
as  I  took  the  proffered  seat. 

[4] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

"I  am  the  junior  partner  of  Bishop,  Watrous 
&  Weston,  Mr.  Butterfield,"  I  began. 

"Lawyers'?"  he  interrupted,  a  trifle  impa 
tiently. 

"Attorneys  for  the  Contractors'  National 
Bank,"  I  volunteered  suggestively. 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  as  though  trying 
to  place  the  Bank  in  his  memory.  Then  he 
nodded. 

"You  have  a  good  client.  What  can  I  do  for 
it,  or  you?" 

He  shot  the  words  out  in  a  patronizing  tone 
which  I  instantly  resented. 

"You  can  repurchase  the  Northern  Terminal 
Bonds  at  par  and  interest,"  I  responded  sharply. 

"You  mean  sell  them  for  the  Bank  on  the  mar 
ket,"  he  corrected. 

"No — I  mean  repurchase  them,  Mr.  Butter- 
field  ;  I  am  here  to  tender  you  the  so-called  securi 
ties — and  you  know  why,"  I  added  firmly. 

The  promoter's  eyes  were  fixed  searchingly  on 
me  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  you  are  more  accustomed  to 
bullying  than  you  are  to  banking,  Mr.  Weston," 
he  observed  with  irritating  superiority.  "Kindly 
inform  your  client  that  its  lawyers  can  do  busi 
ness  with  mine,  but  not  with  me." 

[5] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

He  shoved  my  card  toward  me  as  he  spoke.  I 
took  it  and  placed  it  in  the  side  pocket  of  my  coat, 
and  as  I  did  so  my  hand  came  in  contact  with 
a  small  nickel-plated  bicycle-wrench  which  I 
happened  to  be  carrying.  "So  you  elect  to  bluff 
it  out,"  I  thought,  as  I  tipped  back  my  chair.  "I 
wonder  how  long  you'll  keep  it  up  if  I  put  the 
screws  on." — I  slipped  my  finger  into  the  jaws  of 
the  wrench  and  tightened  them  slightly  by  way 
of  illustration. 

"Just  as  you  please,  Mr.  Butterfield,"  I  an 
nounced  aloud.  "But  remember  the  Bank  has 
given  you  a  fair  chance  to  make  restitution  with 
out  publicly  charging  you  with  fraud,  and " 

"Get  out  of  this  office!" 

Butterfield  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  menacing 
gesture. 

"Get  out  of  this  office!"  he  repeated.  "Do 
you  think  you  can  sit  here  and  threaten  me  with 
blackmail !" 

I  did  not  stir  from  my  seat. 

"There's  no  use  bluffing,  Mr.  Butterfield/'  I 
observed  with  perfect  calmness,  "our  cards  are 
too  good." 

I  laid  a  typewritten  copy  of  his  letter  to  Kal- 
tenberg  on  the  desk  as  I  spoke,  at  the  same  time 
turning  the  screw  of  my  pocket-wrench. 

[6] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

He  picked  up  the  paper  and  stared  at  it  with 
well-feigned  astonishment. 

"Who  wrote  this*?"  he  demanded,  after  a 
pause. 

The  indignant  tone  was  perfect.  Certainly  the 
man  had  himself  under  admirable  control. 

"Who  wrote  it?"  I  repeated.  "Who  but  Mr. 
Rodman  Butterneld?" 

"What?  I? — Oh,  somebody  has  been  fooling 
you,  Mr.  Weston " 

He  folded  up  the  letter  and  offered  it  to  me  as 
he  spoke,  at  the  same  time  resuming  his  seat. 

I  let  the  paper  lie,  and  slowly  tightened  the 
wrench  in  my  pocket  until  my  imprisoned  finger 
felt  numb. 

"Somebody  has  certainly  been  fooling  you," 
he  repeated  calmly.  "I  hope  you  didn't  have  to 
pay  much  for  that  sheet  of  typewriting." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Because,"  he  resumed,  with  an  easy  laugh,  "if 
you  paid  anything  at  all  you  ought  to  have  re 
ceived  something  in  manuscript — something 
scrawly  and  shaky  and  at  least  resembling  my 
execrable  chirography." 

"Oh,  we  got  that,"  I  answered  in  the  same  light 
tone,  giving  a  final  turn  to  the  screw  of  my  pocket 
wrench. 

[7] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

"Really1?"  he  bantered.  "And  for  nothing?— 
Well,  it  was  worth  just  what  you  paid  for  it." 

"It  is  worth  a  look,"  I  asserted,  suddenly  un 
covering  the  glass-enclosed  original  from  the  folds 
of  a  newspaper. 

His  face  betrayed  nothing  as  he  stared  at  the 
exhibit,  and  I  could  not  but  admire  the  man's 
coolness.  At  last  he  lifted  it  from  the  desk  where 
I  had  laid  it,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  noted 
a  sign  of  weakness.  His  hands  trembled  slightly. 
I  watched  him  closely  as  he  turned  the  glass  and 
examined  the  back  of  the  letter,  and  the  longer 
he  studied  it  the  more  his  hands  shook.  I  had 
dealt  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  in  the 
witness  box,  and  those  trembling  hands  told  me 
all  I  wanted  to  know.  The  man  was  hit  and  hard 
hit.  It  only  remained  for  me  to  name  my  terms 
and  close  the  business.  I  could  therefore  afford  to 
let  him  take  his  own  time  and  I  gazed  carelessly 
out  of  a  window  until  his  voice  recalled  me. 

"This  is  a  good — a  very  good  forgery." 

I  turned  as  he  spoke  and  noticed  that  the  glass 
frame  into  which  he  was  still  closely  peering,  re 
flected  his  mask-like  features.  Was  it  possible 
that  the  man  meditated  further  pretense  in  the 
face  of  the  exhibit  wobbling  in  his  tell-tale  hands*? 
It  was  stupid  to  continue  playing,  after  the  game 

[8] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

was  up,  and  I  began  to  grow  impatient  with  such 
futile  tactics. 

"We  may  not  be  able  to  convict  the  writer  of 
that  letter  of  forgery,  Mr.  Butterfield,"  I  re 
sponded  with  proper  emphasis,  "but  there  can  be 
no  doubt  of  his  fraud." 

An  increased  tremor  of  the  shaking  hands  was 
his  only  answer,  and  I  studied  him  curiously  as 
he  held  the  exhibit  up  to  the  light  again.  There 
was  something  pitiful  in  the  picture  he  presented 
and  I  watched  him  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
But  when  I  spoke  again  there  was  an  unmistakable 
note  of  warning  in  my  voice. 

"If  you've  quite  finished  with  that — forgery, 
Mr.  Butterfield " 

I  paused  suggestively  and  unfolded  my  news 
paper,  but  before  I  could  touch  the  glass  frame 
which  he  held  toward  me  it  dropped  from  his  pal 
sied  hands  and  was  shivered  to  splinters  on  the 
floor. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ! — I  beg  your  pardon !"  he 
apologized,  hurriedly  stooping  as  he  spoke.  I  also 
stooped,  and  at  the  same  moment  his  foot  struck 
the  leg  of  my  chair  and  I  was  thrown  forward,  my 
hands  striking  the  mass  of  broken  glass  on  the 
floor  and  before  I  knew  what  was  happening  he 
had  seized  the  letter  and  the  copy,  torn  them  to 

[9] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

pieces  and  was  half  way  to  the  fire-place  with  the 
fragments. 

For  a  heart-beat  I  was  paralyzed  with  amaze 
ment.  Then  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  I 
leaped  to  my  feet,  tore  the  bicycle-wrench  from 
my  pocket  and  leveled  it  at  him  like  a  revolver. 

"Stop !"  I  whispered  fiercely.  "Stop,  or  you're 
a  dead  man!" 

He  turned  as  I  spoke,  and  never  have  I  seen 
such  a  change  in  any  human  face.  It  was  the 
picture  of  craven  fear — all  the  bluff  and  daring 
completely  wiped  out. 

"Drop  those  papers!  Drop  them,  I  say!  One 
_two 1» 

There  was  death  in  my  voice,  for  like  all  com 
petent  advocates  I  am  something  of  an  actor  my 
self. 

His  hand  opened  and  the  minced  fragments 
fluttered  to  the  floor.  I  took  a  step  forward,  and 
then  stopped.  If  he  knew  I  was  unarmed  I  would 
never  recover  those  papers  without  a  struggle.  I 
dared  not  go  near  him.  If  he  even  raised  an 
alarm  the  chances  were  that  I  would  be  over 
powered  and  that  the  precious  fragments  would 
be  destroyed  long  before  I  could  explain.  I  had 
to  hold  him  somehow.  An  open  closet  door  di- 

[10] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

rectly  behind  him  gave  me  a  desperate  sugges 
tion. 

"Back!"  I  whispered  menacingly.  "Back!"  I 
repeated  with  an  ominous  glare. 

He  obeyed,  slowly  retreating  without  taking  his 
eyes  off  the  muzzle  of  my  weapon,  and  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  closet  I  sprang  for 
ward  and  slammed  the  door  upon  him,  locking  it 
as  it  bit  the  latch. 

"If  you  speak  or  raise  an  outcry  I'll  shoot 
through  the  door!"  I  muttered  fiercely  in  the  key 
hole  and  then  dropped  to  my  knees  to  begin  a 
frenzied  search  for  the  scattered  bits  of  paper. 

With  feverish  anxiety  I  hastily  fitted  the  pieces 
together,  welcoming  each  important  fragment  with 
a  childish  delight,  but  even  when  I  saw  the  letter 
taking  shape  my  relief  was  tempered  by  a  sick 
ening  sense  of  chagrin.  I  had  not  only  failed  in 
my  mission,  but  I  had  almost  lost  our  proof 
through  my  bungling  attempts  to  carry  a  ne 
gotiation  with  the  claptrap  methods  of  the  court 
room.  If  I  had  not  been  absorbed  in  my  theatric 
fooling  I  would  have  suspected  the  trick  of 
those  trembling  hands  and  never  given  my  man 
a  chance  to  break  the  glass.  The  matter  ought  to 
have  been  settled  by  any  competent  attorney  in 
side  of  five  minutes,  and  yet  here  I  was,  on  my 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

hands  and  knees,  picking  up  what  was  left  of  an 
invaluable  document.  What  would  my  partners 
think  when  they  learned  the  mess  I  had  made 
of  such  an  easy  matter*?  What  would  the  Bank's 
people  say  when  they  were  told  that  their  foolish 
financiering  would  have  to  be  aired  in  Court,  in 
stead  of  being  quietly  corrected  by  the  simple  ex 
pedient  of  exchanging  a  letter  for  a  check.  I 
flushed  with  anger  and  mortification  as  I  realized 
the  situation. 

A  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  my  bitter  self- 
reproaches,  and  before  I  could  rise  or  gather  up 
the  papers  on  the  floor  the  door  opened  slightly 
and  Mrs.  Butterfield  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  exclaimed,  "I 
thought  Mr.  Butterfield  was  in  here." 

I  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence  and  the 
picture  of  charming  dignity  and  refinement  which 
she  presented  was  instantly  contrasted  in  my  mind 
with  that  of  the  coward  cringing  behind  the  closet 
door.  My  anger  against  the  man  turned  to  con 
tempt  and  I  rose  to  my  feet  possessed  of  a  new 
idea. 

"Your  husband  has  just  stepped  out,  Mrs. 
Butterfield,"  I  observed,  raising  my  voice  for  the 
benefit  of  my  prisoner.  "Won't  you  sit  down*?" 

I  placed  a  chair  as  near  the  closet  door  as  I 
[12] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

dared,  but  Mrs.  Butterfield  protested  that  she 
would  not  interrupt  us  and  could  just  as  well 
wait  outside. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  insisted.  "Our  business  is  al 
most  finished  and  Mr.  Butterfield  has  not  left  the 
building." 

She  seated  herself  in  the  chair  I  indicated,  and 
as  I  swept  up  the  fragments  of  the  letter,  I  men 
tioned  the  dinner  at  which  we  had  previously  met, 
and  the  conversation  once  started  was  easily  sus 
tained. 

"You  are  evidently  a  most  orderly  person,  Mr. 
Weston,"  she  observed  pleasantly  as  I  searched 
the  floor  to  make  sure  that  I  had  overlooked  no 
scrap  of  the  precious  paper.  "Mr.  Butterfield' s 
study  at  home  is  a  perfect  litter  of  rubbish  all  the 
time  and  I  cannot  convince  him  that  waste-paper 
baskets  were  meant  for  waste  paper." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  much  the  same  way,"  I  an 
swered,  "but  these  papers  were  not  meant  to  be 
torn  up  and  my  orderly  virtues  begin  and  end  with 
their  recovery." 

"Pray  let  me  help  you "  she  began,  rising 

as  she  spoke. 

"I  think  I  have  the  last  bit  now,"  I  answered, 
but  the  wrench  on  the  floor  had  caught  her  eye. 
She  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

[13] 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

"Is  this  yours?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes — thank  you,"  I  answered,  taking  it  in 
my  hand.  "That's  my  bicycle- wrench — altho'  it 
was  once  mistaken  for  something  else,"  I  added 
with  a  smile. 

"Why,  what  else  could  it  be*?" 

I  pointed  it  by  way  of  answer  at  the  closet  door. 

Mrs.  Butterfield  laughed  and  nodded  compre- 
hendingly. 

"It  does  look  like  a  revolver  the  way  you  hold 
it,"  she  admitted. 

"Especially  to  the  person  staring  down  the 
barrel,"  I  suggested,  with  a  laugh. 

"Did  any  one  ever  do  that*?"  she  inquired 
smilingly. 

"Once/'  I  answered. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me,"  she  pleaded,  seating  herself  in 
the  chair  again,  "it  sounds  exciting  and — and 
funny." 

"Yes,  it  was  funny — in  fact  it  was  ridicu 
lous,"  I  admitted,  and  leaning  against  the  edge  of 
the  table  I  began  the  story,  omitting  the  names 
and  changing  the  details  sufficiently  for  the  pur 
pose  of  disguise. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  the  play  of  Mrs. 
Butter-field's  face  as  the  tale  unfolded.  No  man 
could  have  endured  her  expression  of  withering, 

[HI 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

patrician  contempt  without  flinching.  But  I  could 
well  fancy  that  it  might  be  worse  than  death  to 
an  ex-hero  who  had  wounded  her  self-pride.  Small 
wonder  that  Butteriield  was  careful  to  keep  up  her 
illusions.  She  might  be  easy  to  deceive,  but  it 
would  be  fatal  to  undeceive  her,  and  I  almost 
prayed  that  the  coward  in  the  closet  might  not 
compel  me  to  destroy  the  woman's  glorious  and 
uplifting  belief  in  her  clay-footed  idol. 

She  laughed  as  I  described  the  ignominious  re 
treat  into  the  closet  and  I  knew  that  every  note 
of  her  laughter  penetrated  the  closet  door. 

"The  ridiculous  coward !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Was  he  ever  able  to  face  his  fellow  men  again  ?" 

"Well,  the  story  hasn't  become  public  yet,"  I 
answered.  "Indeed,  I'm  half  inclined  to  let  the 
fellow  off.— Would  you  do  it?" 

"No,  indeed!"  she  replied  indignantly.  "I 
might  forgive  the  robbery,  but  not  his  contemp 
tible  cowardice.  Such  men  ought  to  be  made  the 
laughing  stock  of  their  world.  Public  ridicule  is 
the  only  proper  punishment  for  them.  When  is 
he  to  be  tried ?  Pd  like  to  come  to  court  and  join 
in  the  general  laugh." 

I  watched  the  expression  of  her  face  as  she 
spoke  and  something  told  me  that  Butterfield  saw 
it  in  the  dark  of  his  hiding-place. 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

"The  trial  would  certainly  be  amusing,"  I 
ruminated,  sitting  down  at  the  desk.  'Til  let  you 
know  if  we  decide  to  expose  him.  Will  you  ex 
cuse  me  a  moment  while  I  write  a  note?' 

She  bowed  and  mentioning  something  about  a 
telephone  message  stepped  toward  the  door.  I 
held  it  open  for  her  as  she  passed  out,  closed  it 
behind  her,  and  then  walking  quickly  to  the  closet, 
turned  the  key  and  swung  open  the  door. 

Butterfield  stumbled  forward,  blinking  in  the 
sudden  light,  and  his  face  had  visibly  aged  since 
I  last  saw  it. 

"You  have  already  examined  our  Exhibit  No. 
1,  Mr.  Butterfield,"  I  began  calmly,  "but  before 
we  close  our  interview  allow  me  to  show  you 
Exhibit  No.  2." 

I  drew  the  wrench  from  my  pocket  and  held  it 
toward  him  on  the  flat  of  my  hand.  He  stood 
staring  at  me  for  a  moment  and  made  two  or  three 
ineffectual  efforts  to  speak  before  he  succeeded. 

"What  is  the  amount  of  your  claim?"  he  mut 
tered  thickly,  glancing  apprehensively  at  the  door. 

I  told  him  as  he  hurried  to  the  desk  and  drew 
his  private  check-book  toward  him  with  trembling 
fingers. 

"Do  you  want  it  certified?"  he  queried,  as  he 
hastily  shoved  the  check  into  my  hand. 


EXHIBIT  NO.  2 

The  door  opened  before  I  could  answer.  But 
I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  as  Mrs.  Butter- 
field  entered,  her  face  radiant  at  the  sight  of  him. 

"No,"  I  answered  quietly.  "That  check  is 
guaranteed." 


[17] 


II 

THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

THE  fellow  never  deceived  me  for  an  in 
stant.  I  state  this  at  the  outset  because 
Benson  and  his  clique  in  the  club  corner 
have  carried  the  matter  beyond  the  limits  of  a 
joke. 

I  have  as  nice  a  sense  of  humor  as  any  one,  but 
I  do  not  propose  to  be  made  a  laughing  stock 
simply  because  Benson  chooses  to  say  I  was  duped. 
That  version  of  the  story  may  be  funny,  even  in 
Benson's  mouth,  but  it  does  not  happen  to  be  true. 
I  was  prejudiced  against  MacLeod  from  the  mo 
ment  I  laid  eyes  on  him,  and  I  am  no  mean  judge 
of  character. 

In  the  first  place,  I  did  not  like  the  way  he 
entered  my  private  room.  He  followed  the  office 
boy  too  closely.  Neither  did  I  like  his  personal 
appearance.  I  particularly  disliked  the  squint 
with  which  he  watched  me  and  his  mouth  at  the 
same  time.  This  was  especially  distressing  as  the 
part  of  his  mouth  under  observation  seemed  to  re- 

[18] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

treat  before  his  divided  glance  until  it  hid  around 
the  corner,  setting  his  whole  face  askew.  More 
over,  the  very  way  he  closed  the  door  was  sus 
picious,  and  I  did  not  in  the  least  credit  his  avowed 
susceptibility  to  drafts.  In  fact,  his  every  look 
and  movement  would  have  put  a  far  less  keen 
observer  than  I  upon  his  guard. 

He  placed  a  chair  close  beside  me — confiden 
tially  close — and  for  some  seconds  regarded  me 
with  his  uncomfortably  slanting  squint. 

"D'yer  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked  at  length, 
speaking  through  closed  teeth. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I'm  Buttsy  MacLeod,"  he  whispered,  confi 
dentially,  and  shoved  his  chair  back,  the  better  to 
observe  my  astonishment. 

I  exhibited  no  surprise,  however.  I  was  not  in 
terested.  The  name  conveyed  nothing  to  my 
mind,  and  I  said  so. 

MacLeod's  right  eye  swooped  down  upon  the 
corner  of  his  mouth  which  literally  flew  into  his 
cheek,  giving  him  an  expression  of  mingled  anger 
and  contempt. 

"D'yer  mean  ter  say  yer  never  heard  of  me*?" 
he  asked,  bobbing  his  neck  threateningly  from  side 
to  side. 

I  shook  my  head  again.     He  dipped  a  hand 

[19] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  and  jerked 
out  a  bulging  pocketbook  from  which  he  extracted 
a  bunch  of  newspaper  cuttings  pinned  together 
with  a  brass  fastener. 

"There !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  slapped  the  clip 
pings  down  upon  my  desk. 

"Well?"  I  queried,  indifferently.  "What  are 
those  things?" 

"Me  notices!"  he  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
pride. 

I  stared  at  the  man  with  increasing  interest.  I 
have  always  prided  myself  upon  the  accuracy 
with  which  I  can  determine  a  man's  business  from 
his  face,  and  the  possibility  of  a  mistake  nettled 
me. 

"You  are  an  actor?"  I  inquired,  incredulously. 

"An  actor?    Naw!" 

The  answer  was  a  snarl  of  disgust,  and  with 
out  further  questioning  I  removed  my  spectacles, 
cleaned  them,  and  picked  up  the  bunch  of  press 
clippings.  The  first  words  I  read  restored  my 
self-confidence.  The  fellow  was  a  burglar. 

I  glanced  at  MacLeod  over  my  spectacles.  He 
was  watching  me  with  a  disgustingly  self-satis 
fied  smile.  I  made  no  comment,  however,  and 
resumed  my  perusal  of  the  clippings. 

Buttsy  MacLeod,  it  appeared,  was  one  of  the 
[20] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

best  cracksmen  in  the  business,  and  a  "gun"  fre 
quently  wanted  by  the  metropolitan  police.  His 
powers  were  proclaimed  by  the  number  of  un 
solved  "affairs"  with  which  his  name  was  con 
nected.  I  read  of  a  bank  robbery,  a  housebreak- 
ing  job,  a  diamond  disappearance  and  half  a  dozen 
other  mysteries,  each  account  of  which  closed 
with  a  statement  fom  the  police  that  they  believed 
Buttsy  MacLeod  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  mat 
ter,  or  that  suspicion  pointed  to  Buttsy  MacLeod, 
or  that  the  thing  had  "the  clean-cut  look  of  a 
Buttsy  MacLeod  job." 

It  appeared,  however,  that  Buttsy  was  more 
often  suspected  than  detected.  Most  of  the  clip 
pings  included  a  brief  biography  of  Buttsy,  and 
more  than  one  illustrated  its  story  with  a  more  or 
less  fancy  portrait  of  the  gentleman,  encircled  by 
a  chain  of  burglar's  tools  and  handcuffs,  or  other 
wise  appropriately  framed.  Every  time  I  came 
upon  one  of  these  flattering  portraits  I  glanced  at 
the  supposed  original,  who  favored  me  with  profile 
or  full  face  as  the  occasion  suggested,  his  expres 
sion  invariably  denoting  conscious  pride  and  self- 
satisfaction.  Buttsy  was  the  most  inordinately 
conceited  man  I  have  ever  encountered. 

When   I   had   finished   my   reading   I   folded 

[2!] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

the  bunch  of  clippings  and  handed  it  to  MacLeod 
without  comment. 

"Pretty  good — ain't  they?"  he  asked  expec 
tantly. 

"Pretty  bad,  I  should  say,"  I  retorted. 

"Bad!"  he  exclaimed  almost  peevishly.  Then 
he  paused  and  smiled  faintly.  "I  see"  he  con 
tinued,  "you're  kiddin'  me.  Bad  'cause  they're^ 
so  good,  eh?  Well,  I'm  Buttsy  MacLeod,  all 
right.  That's  me."  He  tapped  the  bunch  of 
papers  as  he  replaced  it  in  the  pocketbook. 

When  taking  the  measure  of  a  man  I  usually 
look  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  My  wife  says  I 
have  a  remarkably  penetrating  gaze,  and  it  is  per 
fectly  true  that  when  our  cook  was  suspected  of 
irregularities  in  the  kitchen  she  broke  down  com 
pletely  under  my  intense  scrutiny  and  confessed 
without  a  question.  MacLeod's  squint,  however, 
was  most  unpleasant,  and  I  could  not  watch  it 
long  without  feeling  my  own  eyes  at  odds,  and 
my  face  askew.  I  therefore  removed  my  spec 
tacles,  and  kept  wiping  them  as  I  questioned  him. 

"What  is  your  business  with  me — Buttsy?"  I 
began. 

I  have  always  understood  that  noted  criminals 
like  to  be  addressed  by  their  nicknames,  but  Mac- 

[22] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

Leod  did  not  seem  overpleased  with  my  famili 
arity. 

"Law  business,  of  course,  Mister  Peterson,"  he 
answered,  emphasizing  the  title.  "I  wanter  re 
tain  yer." 

"To  retain  me?'  I  repeated.  "I  don't  take 
criminal  cases." 

"You'll  take  this  one.  There's  something  I 
ain't  showed  yer  yet,"  he  replied,  coolly  pro 
ducing  a  revolver  from  his  pocket. 

The  moment  his  hand  left  the  weapon  mine 
covered  it  and  I  had  it  leveled  at  his  head. 

"  'Tain't  loaded,"  he  observed  calmly,  as  he 
continued  delving  in  his  pocket.  "Wat  d'yer 
t'inklam?" 

I  could  see  that  the  exposed  chambers  of  the 
revolver  were  empty,  but  I  lowered  the  weapon 
cautiously. 

"Yer  quite  a  gamecock,  aint  yer*?"  he  re 
marked.  "That's  what  I  wants — a  fightin'  lawyer 
who  ain't  afraid.  Look  at  this  now!" 

He  spread  before  me  a  full  page  of  the  Sun 
day  supplement  of  some  newspaper,  giving  af 
detailed  account  of  Buttsy's  more  or  less  checkered 
career,  illustrated  by  numerous  portraits  of  him 
self,  sketches  of  houses  he  had  robbed,  and  pho- 

[23] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

tographs  of  lawyers  who  had  defended  him.    All 
this  was  headed: 

FAMOUS  ADVISERS  OF  AN 
INFAMOUS  INDIVIDUAL 

"I  am  not  a  criminal  lawyer,"  I  repeated  indif 
ferently,  as  I  pushed  the  paper  aside  with  the 
muzzle  of  the  revolver. 

"I  know  it.  That's  why  I  come  to  yer.  They's 
all  bums  or  beats.  I  wants  brains." 

I  glanced  at  my  would-be  client  with  some  sur 
prise.  He  certainly  displayed  unusual  intelli 
gence  for  a  man  of  his  class.  His  conclusion  that 
the  civil  bar — the  more  remunerative  side  of  the 
profession — contained  the  ablest  men  was  quite 
logical.  Of  course  very  few  practitioners  in  the 
civil  courts  have  had  any  experience  before  the 
criminal  tribunals.  But  experience  is  a  poor  sub 
stitute  for  native  ability,  and  MacLeod  had  ap 
parently  weighed  the  criminal  bar  and  found  it 
wanting  in  the  latter  quality.  My  particular 
field  of  practice — the  examination  of  patents — 
had  not,  of  course,  given  me  much  opportunity  for 
court  work  of  any  kind.  But  I  always  believed 
that  my  faculty  for  character-reading  would  dis 
tinguish  me  in  the  active  branches  of  the  profes- 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

sion,  and  more  than  once  I  had  thought  of  testing 
my  prowess  in  this  regard. 

MacLeod's  case  seemed  to  present  an  unusually 
favorable  opportunity  for  this.  He  was  appar 
ently  a  notorious  character,  and  his  trial,  if  court 
proceedings  should  ensue,  would  doubtless  attract 
considerable  attention.  I  had  no  desire  to  act  as 
the  official  adviser  to  any  criminal,  great  or  small, 
but  I  did  long  to  match  myself,  man  against  man, 
and  brain  against  brain,  in  a  legal  contest  of  note, 
believing  that  in  the  rapid  give  and  take  of  crim 
inal  practice  I  would  not  find  myself  at  a  loss.  I 
was  not  alone  in  this  opinion,  for  my  wife  had 
often  remarked  upon  the  rapidity  and  keenness  of 
my  questions,  and,  in  a  mock  trial  at  our  country 
home  not  long  ago,  every  one  told  me  I  was  sur 
prisingly  forceful.  MacLeod  was  unquestionably 
a  criminal,  but  he  was  entitled  to  all  proper  pro 
tection,  and  since  he  had  not  received  this  at  the 
hands  of  the  criminal  lawyers,  he  was  justified  in 
seeking  it  in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  bar.  The 
situation  appealed  to  my  sense  of  professional 
duty,  and  I  decided  to  accept  Buttsy's  retainer. 

My  insight  into  the  man's  character,  however, 
warned  me  to  give  no  advice  until  I  made  sure  of 
my  fee,  and  I  hinted  as  much  to  MacLeod.  He  re- 

[25] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

plied  by  producing  a  fifty-dollar  bill,  and  laying 
it  upon  my  desk. 

"Give  us  a  receipt,"  he  muttered. 

I  pocketed  the  money,  and  asked  him  to  explain 
his  case  as  I  wrote  the  required  acknowledgment. 
He  did  not  speak,  however,  until  he  had  fastened 
the  receipt  to  his  press  clippings.  Then  he  glanced 
at  me  slyly. 

"Wot  I  tell  youse  is  just  as  confidential  as 
though  yer  was  a  regular  lawyer — ain't  it?"  he 
began,  suspiciously. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  'regular 
lawyer,'  "  I  answered  stiffly,  "but  of  course  the 
communications  of  a  client  to  his  counsel  are  ab 
solutely  sacred  throughout  the  profession." 

"Sacred?"  he  repeated,  with  a  crafty  look.  "Yer 
mean  yer  daresent  give  up  wot  I  tells  yer  with- 
outen  my  leave — don't  yer?" 

"That's  one  way  of  putting  it,"  I  assented,  with 
dignity. 

"Ain't  that  th'  law?"  he  persisted. 

"It  is,"  I  agreed.  "Proceed  with  your  story, 
MacLeod." 

"Supposing"  he  continued,  disregarding  my  in 
structions,  "supposiri5  I  was  pinched  with  the 
goods  on  me,  and  the  owner  didn't — didn't  recog- 

[26] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

nize  'em  or  didn't  claim  'em  anyhow,  could  they 
put  me  through?" 

"It  might  be  very  difficult  to  prove  larceny 
without  such  testimony,"  I  replied.  "I  don't  want 
to  answer  hypothetical  questions,  however.  Get 
to  your  story,  and  I  will  advise  you  accordingly." 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  shifting  in  his  seat  and 
hitching  his  chair  a  trifle  nearer  me.  "This  comes 
of  try  in'  country  work.  I  hadn't  oughter  left  the 
city,  and  I  don't  again  after  I  shake  this.  You 
live  in  the  country,  don't  yer*?"  he  asked,  with  an 
eye  on  a  local  time-table  lying  on  my  desk. 

"In  the  summer,"  I  replied.     "Not  now.     Go 


on." 


"Well,  yer  knows  country  ways,  don't  yer?"  he 
asked,  a  little  anxiously. 

The  term  was  somewhat  vague,  but  I  replied 
that  I  resided  nearly  six  months  of  the  year  at  my 
country  place,  and  could,  I  thought,  claim  famil 
iarity  with  rural  habits. 

Buttsy  seemed  relieved. 

"It  figures  out  this  way,"  he  began  again.  "Me 
side  partner  in  this  deal  piked  off  a  bunch  of 
houses  shut  up  for  the  winter  that  were  fuller 
loose  things.  He  gave  out  that  there  weren't  no 
risk,  and  we  could  work  'em  on  off-nights.  So  I 
up  with  him  and  cracks  the  first  he'd  marked  down 

[27] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

right  enough.  But  while  he  was  sortin'  th'  loose 
in  the  gray,  along  comes  some  repairin'  galoots, 
and  we  had  to  vamoose  with  only  about  half  of 
the  best.  That  was  bad  enough,  but  I  was  tryin' 
on  a  coat  when  me  side  partner  give  me  the  word, 
and  I  left  me  own  coat  with  two  letters  in  the 
side  pocket.  They  give  a  hint  to  them  country 
'trailers,3  but  still  it  took  'em  six  hours  to  put  the 
chief  on,  and  here  we  are." 

"You  mean  there's  a  city  warrant  out  for  your 
arrest4?"  I  asked,  following  his  recital  with  some 
difficulty. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  warrants,"  he  an 
swered,  impatiently,  "but  they's  after  me.  Hutch' 
Mallon  piped  that  in  me  ear  down  to  Hogan's 
where  a  couple  of  'plain-clothes'  was  nosin' 
around.  They'll  get  some  chicken-liver  to  squeal 
me  whereabouts  before  night." 

The  case  sounded  rather  desperate,  but  I  was 
not  certain  that  I  fully  understood  it. 

"Let  us  get  at  this  thing  systematically,"  I  be 
gan  cheerfully.  "These — er — these  affairs  men 
tioned  in  the  papers — do  the  police  want  you  for 
them?' 

"Naw.  They  can't  prove  nothin'  there,  and 
they  knows  it.  I  brushes  up  when  I  leaves. 
That's  what  makes  'em  so  dead  sore  on  me.  In  the 

[28] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

city  I  never  gives  'em  a  smell,  and  it'll  be  nuts  to 
them  to  soak  me  on  this  hayseed  job.  They 
won't  do  a  thing  now  but  lam  me  in  the  neck  for 
every  time  I've  fooled  'em  up " 

"Let  us  consider  the  details  of  this  particular 
case  seriatim"  I  interrupted.  "When  did  this 
— er — this  transaction  take  place?" 

"To-day." 

"Indeed!     At  what  hour?" 

"We  cracked  about  four,  and  we  skipped  about 


seven." 


"Where  was  the  house  located?"  I  continued, 
picking  up  a  pencil  to  note  his  answers. 

"At  Walsboro'." 

I  dropped  my  pencil. 

"Walsboro' !"  I  exclaimed.  "Why,  I  live  in 
Walsboro'  myself  in  the  summer!  Whereabouts 
was  the  house?" 

"Yer  can  search  me!"  he  answered.  "It  was 
about  three  rotten  roads  back  from  the  railway." 

This  was  exceedingly  embarrassing.  All  my 
friends  lived  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  prob 
ably  some  one  I  knew  was  the  victim.  Still  busi 
ness  was  business,  and  my  first  duty  was  to  my 
client.  Perhaps  my  knowledge  of  the  locality 
and  its  residents  might  stand  me  in  good  stead  be 
fore  the  case  was  finished. 

[29] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

"Was  it  a  brick  house  with  a  shingle  roof?"  I 
asked,  describing  Emmosmith's  house. 

"Shingle  roof,  yes,"  he  replied^ — a  trifle  dis 
gustedly  I  thought. 

The  answer  confirmed  my  worst  fears.  One 
of  my  best  friends  was  the  victim.  Still  the  iden 
tification  was  not  complete.  There  were  several 
shingle-roofed,  brick  houses  in  the  vicinity. 

"Did  it  have  a  greenhouse  at  the  side?'  I  asked. 

"Naw." 

I  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  not  Emmo 
smith's  house,  and  anything  was  better  than  that. 
Indeed,  there  were  people  in  Walsboro'  whose 
misfortune  would  cost  me  no  tears.  Balderson, 
for  instance.  If,  by  a  happy  chance,  MacLeod  had 
selected  that  pompous  ass  for  a  visitation 

"Was  the  house  well  furnished?"  I  asked. 

"Naw — bum!  Nothin'  but  plated  stuff,  ex 
cept  weddin'-present  odd-lots,  marked  an  inch 
deep.  Made  me  sick !"  he  muttered. 

This  clearly  pointed  to  Balderson,  and  I  smiled 
at  the  description,  but  determined  to  make  sure. 

"Did  the  house  set  back  from  the  road?" 

"Yep." 

"Did  it  have  a  clematis  vine  over  the  front 
door?" 

"Yep." 

[30] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

"Was  there  a  big  hall  clock  on  the  stairs'?" 

"Yep." 

By  Jove,  it  was  Balderson's  house!  I  could 
scarcely  conceal  my  delight,  but  I  managed  to 
maintain  a  judicial  exterior. 

"I  understand  that  you — er — retained  some  of 
the  property4?"  I  suggested. 

"Aw,  we  pinched  a  few,  but  they  was  boardin'- 
house  truck.  Eisenblume  laughed  a  tooth  out 
when  I  asked  him  a  couple  of  hundred  on  my  lot." 

I  could  not  help  chuckling  outright  at  this  ap 
praisal  of  Balderson's  chattels.  But  I  was  still 
in  the  dark  as  to  Buttsy's  defense,  which  had  be 
come  doubly  important  to  me  since  Balderson 
would  be  the  complainant.  I  was  now  almost 
more  interested  in  defeating  Balderson  than  I 
was  in  clearing  MacLeod,  and  I  determined  to 
leave  no  stone  unturned. 

"What  room  did  you  first  enter*?"  I  began, 
briskly  picking  up  my  pencil. 

"  'T weren't  a  room.     'Twas  the  staircase." 

"The  staircase*?" 

"The  landinV 

"Ah!" 

I  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  me,  and  began 
to  map  out  a  rough  diagram. 

"It  is  most  important  to  ascertain,"  I  observed, 

[31] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

"whether  any  of  the  workmen  who  surprised  you, 
actually  saw  you  in  the  house.  Of  course,  any  one 
might  have  had  your  letters  in  his  coat.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  you  left  those,  but  the  evidence 
they  supply  is  at  best  circumstantial.  We  must 
be  prepared,  however,  to  meet  proof  that  the 
workmen  saw  you  in  the  house.  Perhaps  we  can 
demonstrate  by  a  diagram  that  this  was  impos 
sible.  Now  this  is  a  plan  of  the  ground  floor  of 
Balderson's — of  the  house,  I  mean." 

MacLeod  took  up  the  diagram  and  examined 
it  critically. 

"This  here's  wrong,"  he  remarked,  with  a  dirty 
finger  on  my  drawing. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  I  asked. 

"The  big  room's  on  the  other  side." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  answered.  "Anyway,  it 
will  serve  to  illustrate  the  situation.  Now  when 
the  workmen  entered " 

"This  part's  wrong,  too,"  interrupted  Buttsy. 
"The  stairs  ain't  in  the  middle  of  the  hall.  They're 
'way  off  here." 

"You're  mistaken,"  I  replied,  impatiently, 
"but " 

"Well,  I  know  'taint  so,"  he  asserted  impu 
dently. 

"Don't  contradict  me,  MacLeod,"  I  answered, 

[32] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

severely.  "I've  been  in  the  house  dozens  of  times 
and  I  know." 

"Don't  care  if  you've  lived  in  it!"  he  retorted, 
hotly.  "I  ain't  been  in  it  only  once,  but  I  guess  I 
know  my  business.  Bet  yer  fifty  I  can  go  it  blind 
fold  from  cellar  to  roof.  Here " 

"Nonsense,  MacLeod!"  I  interrupted,  with 
some  annoyance.  "I've  no  time  for  trifling " 

"Nonsense?"  he  burst  out,  angrily.  "Here's 
fifty  to  cover  that!  Write  it  down!  Write  it 
down !  I'll  nonsense  you !  First  floor:  square 
hall — library  to  right,  dining-room  to  left — stairs 
Alongside  library — three  broad  steps  and  a  turn^ 
then " 

"Hold  on!"  I  interposed,  apprehensively. 

"Hold  on  no  thin' !"  he  continued,  aggressively. 
"No  sneakin'  bets  now!  Seven  steps  to  first 
landin* — hall  clock  in  hole  in  wall,  with  gray 
chiny  vase  s tan  din' " 

"A  gray  china  vase !"  I  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

"Yes,  a  gray  chiny  vase!"  he  repeated,  mock 
ingly.  "Picked  me  up  for  a  greenhorn,  eh? — well, 
I  ain't!  Second  floor:  small  square  hall  with 
panel  picture  of  Venus  walkin'  in  th'  wood " 

"Stop!"  I  gasped. 

"Wanter  squeal  'cause  I  ain't  called  the 
woman  right?  Well,  you  shave  closer  next  time 

[33] 


THE  SHIELD  OF  PRIVILEGE 

yer  take  a  first-rater  for  an  amatoor !  Passageway 
to  right  openin'  on  two  sleepers  and  a  bath"  he 
gabbled  along  conceitedly,  "two  more  sleepers, 
big  closets,  bathroom  and  door  on  left  leadin'  to 
rear  hall,  three  sleepers  and  attic  staircase — two 
turns  in  stairs  to  attic — slidirf  skylight  to  left — 
shingle  roof  painted  red." 

"Red!"  I  shouted,  grasping  at  a  straw.  "This 
house  hasn't  a  red  roof!" 

"Aw,  look  at  me  pants!"  he  retorted,  dis 
gustedly. 

"That's  my  house !"  I  roared. 

MacLeod's  eye  held  me  fascinated,  while  his 
left  viciously  chased  his  mouth. 

"Tell  me  somethin'  I  don't  know!"  he  mut 
tered.  "Wot  d'yer  t'ink  I  hired  yer  for*?" 

I  didn't  have  to  defend  Mr.  MacLeod  in  court 
because — well,  because  the  police  failed  to  obtain 
proper  identification  of  the  articles  he  pawned, 
and  because  other  proof  was  lacking.  My  rea 
sons  for  undertaking  his  case,  however,  were  ex 
actly  as  I  have  stated,  and  when  Benson  says  I 
was  gulled  from  first  to  last,  he  simply  lies. 
Buttsy  MacLeod's  character  was  an  open  book  to 
me  from  the  moment  we  met — incomprehensible 
as  this  may  be  to  a  man  of  Benson's  caliber. 

[34] 


Ill 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

IF  Miss  Amanda  Upton,  attorney-at-law,  did 
not  succeed  in  her  candidacy  for  membership 
in  the  Bar  Association  she  at  least  managed 
to  throw  the  apple  of  discord  among  the  elect  of 
that  worthy  institution.  Indeed,  the  storm  which 
had  raged  in  the  council  chamber  early  in  the 
evening  threatened  to  break  out  anew  in  our  par 
ticular  corner  of  the  lounging  room  the  moment 
we  began  to  discuss  the  vote  which  had  retired  the 
fair  applicant. 

"I  dare  say  she's  got  brains  enough — if  it  comes 
to  that,"  admitted  Major  Lacy. 

"It  never  has  come  to  that — has  it?"  drawled 
Adams. 

"If  it  has,  some  of  us  were  elected  under  false 
pretenses,"  answered  Dupont,  eyeing  Lacy. 

"Speaking  for  yourself,  I  suppose,  Dupont?" 
muttered  the  Major. 

"And  for  all  others  similarly  situated,"  was  the 
quick  retort. 

[35] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

An  ominous  pause  followed  and  I  was  about 
to  change  the  subject  in  the  interest  of  peace  when 
Garrison  joined  us  and  created  a  momentary 
diversion. 

"Well,  how  did  the  battle  go  to-night*?"  he 
inquired  as  he  dropped  into  a  vacant  chair. 

"Weren't  you  at  the  meeting?'  I  asked. 

"No,  I've  only  just  arrived.  Which  is  it — the 
Lady  or  the— B'ar?' 

"The  Bar!"  snapped  Lacy  triumphantly. 

Garrison  nodded  comprehendingly. 

"I  thought  it  would  end  that  way,"  he  reflected. 
"Competition  may  be  the  life  of  trade,  but  it 
might  be  the  death  of  the  profession  if  we  let 
women  join  our  Union." 

The  idea  of  the  Bar  Association  as  a  Union 
helped  to  restore  our  good  humor.  Even  Lacy  and 
Dupont  smiled. 

"I  wouldn't  care  if  it  didn't  mean  the  begin 
ning  of  the  end,"  asserted  Adams.  "But  if  we 
open  the  door  to  women  we'll  have  the  place  over 
run  with  them,  and  afternoon  teas  will  follow  as 
a  matter  of  course." 

"No  Boston  Adams  ought  to  object  to  a  tea- 
fight,"  responded  Garrison,  "and  I  don't  believe 
you  do.  Why  not  be  frank  and  admit  we  don't 
relish  competition"?" 

[36] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"Competition!"  scoffed  Lacy.  "A  woman  is 
about  as  fit  for  legal  work  as  she  is  for  pugilism. 
I  once  tried  a  case  against  a  female  lawyer  and 
before  we  got  through  she  burst  out  crying  and 
wept  hysterically  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour." 

"It's  enough  to  make  anybody  weep  to  see  Lacy 
try  a  case,"  Dupont  muttered  in  my  ear.  "After 
him  the  deluge!  Did  you  survive  the  flood, 
Major4?"  he  inquired  aloud. 

I  saw  trouble  brewing  and  hastened  to  avert  it 
by  addressing  Garrison. 

"Do  you  really  think  women  can  ever  seriously 
compete  with  men  in  the  practice  of  law?'  I 
inquired. 

"Most  assuredly,  within  certain  lines,"  he  re 
sponded  promptly,  "and  I'm  not  prepared  to  draw 
them  too  closely  either — experience  having  taught 
me  caution." 

"Your  Portia  didn't  weep,  then?'  suggested 
Adams. 

"No,  she  didn't  weep,  but  I'd  bet  she  could 
have  shed  real  tears  to  order  any  time.  Almost 
every  woman  is  more  or  less  of  an  actress,  and 
acting  is  no  small  part  of  a  lawyer's  equipment." 

Garrison  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  taking 
a  cigar  from  his  pocket  studied  it  thoughtfully. 
We  waited  for  his  reminiscence,  but  after  a  few 

[37] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

moments  he  asked  Adams  for  a  match  and  settled 
into  his  former  position. 

"Well?"  I  prompted  him.  "Aren't  you  going 
to  give  us  the  benefit  of  your  experience  with  our 
learned  opponents  of  the  other  sex?" 

"I  wonder  if  there's  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't?"  he  answered  musingly.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  there  is.  But  anyway  we're  all  in  the  same 
trade,  and  if  there  is  anything  confidential  in  the 
story  it's  as  safe  with  you  as  it  is  with  me,  so  I 
may  as  well  pass  it  along  for  what  it's  worth. 
Once  upon  a  time  I  was  retained  by  a  fellow 
named  Chatfield  Healey  who  had  been  arrested  on 
a  charge  of  embezzlement.  I  don't  remember  how 
Chatfield  happened  to  send  for  me,  but  he  did,  and 
I  learned  that  he  had  been  a  book-keeper  and  confi 
dential  clerk  for  a  mercantile  house  and  that  the 
accusation  against  him  was  serious  enough  to  put 
the  bail  above  our  reach.  Healey  wasn't  a  very 
inspiring  client.  He  had  a  long,  thin,  melancholy 
face  and  absurd  red  whiskers  which  he  constantly 
combed  with  his  fingers — pulling  his  hooked  right 
hand  first  through  one  and  then  through  the  other 
with  a  maddening  impartiality  that  speedily  re 
duced  one  to  a  state  of  solemn  imbecility.  Before 
his  arrest  he  had  doubtless  been  quite  an  imposing 
personage  of  the  floor-walker  type,  dignified,  tall, 

[38] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

stately  and  supremely  confident  of  his  personal 
charms.  But  his  troubles  had  taken  all  the  starch 
out  of  him  and  left  him  solemn,  confused,  helpless 
and  worst  of  all,  comic.  Don't  you  know  how  im 
possible  it  is  to  feel  any  really  deep  sympathy  for 
a  person  who  strikes  you  as  comic  ?  Well,  that 
was  the  way  poor  Healey  appealed  to  me.  I  felt 
like  laughing  every  time  I  looked  at  him,  which 
did  not  serve  to  dissipate  the  gloom  of  his  nervous 
depression  and  I  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  day 
light  in  his  case,  of  my  own  initiative.  He,  him 
self,  gave  me  little  or  no  assistance,  for  his  expla 
nations  were  a  mop  of  watery  incoherencies  which 
practically  wiped  out  my  best  thoughts,  and  made 
confusion  worse  confounded.  In  fact  I  left  him 
alone  after  the  first  few  interviews  and  devoted 
myself  to  his  accounts,  which,  at  least,  had  the 
merit  of  not  being  comic.  I  don't  know  how  many 
days  I  worked  over  those  wretched  papers,  but  at 
last  I  collected  the  most  promising  data  and  took 
them  down  to  my  client  in  the  jail.  But  appar 
ently  I  did  not  select  propitious  items,  for  they 
produced  exactly  the  opposite  effect  I  had  ex 
pected,  and  I  emerged  from  the  consultation  hope 
lessly  discouraged  and  out  of  sorts. 

"On  my  return  to  the  office,  however,  I  found 
a  young  woman  waiting  for  me  who,  to  my  intense 

[39] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

surprise,  informed  me  that  she  was  Mrs.  Chatfield 
Healey.  It  was  not  the  fact  of  Healey's  marriage 
which  surprised  me — for  of  course  I  knew  of  that 
— it  was  the  personality  of  the  woman  who  in 
troduced  herself  as  his  wife.  She  was  young, 
cheerful,  bright,  good  looking,  alert,  active — in 
fact  everything  he  wasn't,  and  at  first  glance  it 
was  difficult  to  imagine  her  as  having  anything 
in  common  with  the  preposterous,  red-whiskered, 
wilted  individual  I  had  just  interviewed.  As  soon 
as  I  recovered  from  my  astonishment,  however,  I 
shook  hands  with  her  and  led  the  way  into  my 
private  room.  She  at  once  drew  a  chair  confi 
dentially  close  beside  my  desk,  and,  sitting  down, 
opened  the  conversation  without  the  slightest  em 
barrassment. 

"  'I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Garrison,'  she 
began  cordially,  'and  to  know  the  kind  of  man 
you  are,  for  to  tell  the  truth  I  had  doubts  about 
you  after  seeing  Mr.  Healey  so  low  spirited.  Now 
I  know  you're  all  right.  I  can  tell  it  by  the  way 
you  shake  hands.' 

"  Indeed?'  I  commented. 

"  'Yes,  that's  always  a  good,  if  not  a  sure,  sign 
of  character.  I  place  more  reliance  myself,  how 
ever,  on  the  eyes.  If  a  man  has  gray  eyes  and 
isn't  afraid  to  use  them,  one  can  usually  depend 

[40] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

upon  his  courage  and But  you've  no  time  to 

listen  to  my  personal  opinions/  she  broke  off  smil 
ingly,  'so  I'll  get  down  to  business  at  once.  Mr. 
Healey  is  terribly  nervous  and  depressed,  Mr. 
Garrison.' 

"  'He  does  seem  upset,'  I  admitted.  'And  of 
course  his  case  is  not  without  difficulty,  Mrs. 
Healey ' 

"  'I  don't  see  any  difficulties,'  she  interposed 
sturdily.  'The  accusation  has  prostrated  Chat- 
field,  but  that  is  the  only  serious  thing  about  it.' 

"  'To  his  friends,  of  course,'  I  answered.  'But 
to  make  a  jury  think  him  innocent ' 

"'You  can  do  it!'  she  asserted  confidently. 
'You  must  do  it !  You  will !  I  know  you  will !' 

"She  leaned  forward  on  the  desk-shelf  as  she 
spoke  and  her  bright  eyes  and  intently  earnest 
expression  were  most  inspiring. 

"'Good!'  I  ejaculated  warmly.  That's  the 
sort  of  faith  which  removes  mountains.' 

"  'Molehills  are  often  mistaken  for  mountains, 
Mr.  Garrison,'  she  answered  smilingly,  'and  Mr. 
Healey  has  a  perfect  genius  for  distortion  when 
he's  low-spirited.  Show  me  some  of  his  moun 
tains.' 

"I  pointed  at  the  hopeless  mass  of  accountants' 
reports  lying  on  the  desk  before  me. 

[41] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"  'Of  course  they've  made  the  figures  lie  against 
him,'  she  asserted  cheerfully.  'There's  nothing 
easier  than  that.  I  was  in  the  cashier's  depart 
ment  of  Latham  &  Bailey's  for  two  years  before  I 
married  Mr.  Healey,  and  I  know  how  difficult  it 
is  to  trace  even  a  simple  transposition  of  figures. 
But  what's  the  charge  against  him,  Mr.  Garrison*? 
That  he  stole  $2,ooo — isn't  that  it?'  she  inquired 
indignantly. 

"The  question  was  so  utterly  incredulous  that 
I  was  puzzled  for  a  reply,  but  at  last  I  determined 
to  attempt  a  little  brutal  frankness. 

"  The  proofs  lie  right  in  Chatfield's  own  books, 
Mrs.  Healey,'  I  answered  bluntly.  'For  example 
there  is  an  item  entered  in  the  petty  cash  as  $125 
when  it  ought  to  be  $25,  which  makes  $100  dif 
ference  in  the  cash.' 

"If  I  expected  this  plain  statement  to  effect  a 
complete  understanding  between  us  I  was  speed 
ily  disillusioned.  Mrs.  Healey  took  the  sheet 
from  my  hand  and  examined  it  closely,  her  ex 
pression  indicating  neither  surprise  nor  resentment 
but  merely  intense  interest. 

"  'Who  wrote  the  figure  1  before  the  $25?  she 
demanded  after  a  pause. 

"  The  charge  is  that  Chatfield  did,'  I  answered, 
watching  her  closely. 

[42] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"Mrs.  Healey  indignantly  threw  the  paper 
aside,  flushing  very  charmingly. 

"  'It's  ridiculous,  Mr.  Garrison — perfectly 
ridiculous!7  she  burst  out.  'Don't  you  suppose 
Chatfield,  with  his  twenty  years'  training,  knew 
a  dozen  safer  ways  to  fix  the  books'?  Why,  I 
could  hide  his  tracks  better  myself,  and  I've  not 
had  anything  like  his  experience.  It's  positively 
insulting  to  his  intelligence!' 

"  It  is  rather  a  crude  method  of  procedure/  I 
agreed  reflectively.  'By  the  way,'  I  continued 
with  a  meaning  glance,  'have  you  seen  Mr.  Healey 
to-day?' 

"She  nodded  her  head  abstractedly. 

"  'Crude  is  no  word  for  work  of  this  sort,'  she 
responded,  picking  up  the  papers  again.  'No 
business-college  boy  would  dream  of  trying  it,  and 
Chatfield  is  an  expert  book-keeper.  They'll  have 
to  admit  that.' 

"I  confess  I  had  never  thought  of  the  point  be 
fore,  and  it  certainly  afforded  a  plausible  argu 
ment  for  the  jury.  I  considered  the  matter  for 
some  minutes  in  silence,  conscious  all  the  time 
that  the  little  woman's  bright  eyes  were  watch 
ing  me  with  hopeful  eagerness.  I  hated  to  dis 
courage  her,  but  in  view  of  certain  other  facts,  I 
knew  it  would  not  do  to  place  much  confidence 

[43] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

in  her  suggestion,  adroit  as  it  was.     Finally  I 
observed  : 

:/The  trouble  with  your  argument  is  that  it 
does  not  explain  the  disappearance  of  the  cash, 
Mrs.  Healey.  You  see  Chatfield  had  certain  sums 
in  his  charge,  and  they  have  gone.  How  are  we 
to  account  for  them?' 

"She  nodded  comprehendingly,  and,  leaning  her 
elbows  on  the  desk-shelf  rested  her  chin  in  her 
hands  and  stared  thoughtfully  before  her.  Some 
thing  in  her  expression  however  told  me  that  she 
was  facing  facts  which  had  no  terrors  for  her  and 
I  grew  strangely  confident  as  I  watched  her.  At 
last  she  picked  up  the  memorandum-sheet  again 
and  studied  it  for  some  moments  without  speak 
ing.  Then  she  suddenly  glanced  up  and  grasped 
my  arm. 

"  'Look  here !'  she  cried  impulsively.  'Is  this 
the  way  the  theft  of  all  this  money  has  been 
covered — a  two  dollar  item  changed  to  read 
twenty-two — a  six  dollar  entry  turned  to  fifty- 
six,  and  so  on  ? Simply  by  inserting  a  figure 

before  the  right  amount  and  taking  the  difference 
out  of  the  cash?' 

"I  nodded,  for  such  was  my  interpretation  of  the 
matter,  stripped  of  all  technicalities  and  refine 
ments. 

[44] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"  'It's  too — too  amateurish !'  she  exclaimed  im 
patiently.  'No  one  but  an  ignoramus  would  hide 
his  head  in  the  sand  that  way.  Chatfield  was 
not  the  only  one  who  had  the  key  to  the  cash!' 
she  added  aggressively. 

"  'No,'  I  answered  indifferently. 

"  'Who  else  had  access  to  the  box?  Nobody 
but  the  partners  ? — Then  the  partners  did  the  rob 
bing!'  she  burst  out  triumphantly. 

"Her  enthusiasm  was  splendid,  but  I  could  not 
help  laughing — the  idea  was  so  fantastic. 

"  'Why  should  a  man  want  to  rob  himself?'  I 
inquired  smilingly. 

"  'One  of  them  wasn't  robbing  himself,'  she 
expostulated.  'He  was  taking  his  own  share  and 
part  of  the  other  fellow's.' 

"  'Of  course — if  he  took  the  money,'  I  admitted 
gravely.  'But  you  see  there's  no  proof  that  he 
did  so.' 

"'There's  every  proof!'  she  insisted.  'There 
must  be !  Either  Chatfield  or  one  of  the  firm  took 
the  money,  and  we  know  Chatfield  didn't  because 
we  can  account  for  every  cent  he  ever  had,'  she 
tapped  her  private  house-keeping  books. 

"  'Can  the  partners  do  the  same*?'  she  demanded. 
'Maybe  one  of  them  speculates.' 

[45] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"I  started  at  the  suggestion,  and  her  watchful 
eyes  instantly  noted  my  expression. 

"  'Do  they  speculate?  she  demanded  eagerly. 

"  Trobably  not' — I  began  warily. 

"  'Why? 

"  'Because  partnership  articles  usually  forbid 
speculation ' 

"Mrs.  Healey  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of 
delight. 

"  'There  you  have  it !'  she  exclaimed.  *I  knew 
I  was  right!  The  case  is  as  clear  as  daylight. 
One  of  the  partners  has  been  speculating — specu 
lation  is  forbidden — he  has  to  do  it  secretly — he 
loses  money  and  takes  it  from  the  cash — he  doesn't 
know  enough  about  book-keeping  to  hide  the  thing 
decently,  so  resorts  to  this  transparent  trick  of 
writing  in  figures  before  Chatfield's  entries! 
Figures  are  easily  copied — anybody  can  imitate 
Chatfield's  and  this  has  been  done  again  and  again, 
Chatfield  adding  up  the  columns,  like  the  dear  old 
machine  that  he  is,  with  never  a  suspicion  until 
the  theft  is  discovered  and  the  rascals  accuse  him 
of  the  crime.  It's  an  outrage — a  contemptible 
outrage!  But  they  haven't  heard  the  last  of  it 
yet!  Can't  we  sue  them  for  false  imprison 
ment*?'  she  concluded  breathlessly. 

[46] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

"  'Certainly  if  he's  acquitted,'  I  answered  care 
lessly. 

"  'If  you  prove  that  one  of  the  partners  was 
speculating  unknown  to  the  other  and  contrary  to 
the  partnership  articles,  and  if  he  lost  money  and 
had  access  to  Chatfield's  cash,  and  the  whole 
amount  was  covered  by  a  trick  which  no  com 
petent  book-keeper  would  dream  of  trying — do 
you  believe  any  jury  in  the  world  would  convict 
Chatfield,  with  our  house-keeping  accounts  right 
to  a  cent?' 

"I  didn't  think  so,  provided  we  could  eliminate 
those  'ifs'  and  I  said  as  much. 

"  'Then  let's  commence  the  suit  for  false  im 
prisonment  now!'  she  continued  enthusiastically. 

"  'You  want  to  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
country,'  I  suggested  jestingly. 

"  'I  don't  know  anything  about  that,'  she  re 
sponded.  'But  I  want  damages — big  damages! 
Make  them  a  hundred  thousand  dollars!  They 
shall  pay  for  every  second  they've  made  us  suffer ! 
Poor  Chatfield!'  she  added  tenderly. 

"I  sat  lost  in  admiration  for  the  woman.  Her 
loyal,  aggressive  championing  had  excited  my  pro 
fessional  interest  and  respect.  But  this  last  burst 
of  maternal-like  sympathy  was  magnificent,  mas- 

[47] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

terful  and  convincing.  It  appealed  to  the  imag 
ination  and  silenced  doubts. 

"  'We'll  talk  of  the  damage-suit  to-morrow, 
Mrs.  Healey,'  I  observed  after  a  pause.  'You've 
given  me  a  good  deal  to  think  about  for  one  day, 
you  know.' 

"  'I  know  a  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient,'  she 
responded  graciously,  rising  from  her  chair,  and 
holding  out  her  hand.  In  another  moment  she  had 
gone. 

"I  never  saw  her  again,  but  I  acted  on  her  sug 
gestion  and  to  my  intense  surprise  discovered  that 
the  junior  partner  actually  had  been  speculating, 
and  armed  with  this  discovery,  I  instantly  called 
upon  his  counsel,  outlined  my  proposed  defense 
to  him,  and  intimated  my  readiness  to  have  the 
jury  decide  between  our  respective  clients.  Need 
less  to  say  my  challenge  was  not  accepted,  and  the 
apathy  of  the  complainants  soon  led  to  a  reduction 
of  Chatfield's  bail,  and  finally  released  him  from 
jail.  Then  I  instituted  the  suit  for  false  imprison 
ment  and  discontinued  it  only  when  the  indict 
ment  against  my  client  was  safely  quashed.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  whether  Healey  is  still  a  book-keeper 
or  not,  but  I  think  his  wife  missed  her  vocation  in 
Latham  &  Bailey's,  for  she  certainly  had  the  mak 
ings  of  a  good  lawyer  in  her." 

[48] 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 

#        ****** 

Lacy  positively  snorted  as  Garrison  paused. 

"The  Bar's  overrun  with  ladylike  lawyers  who 
reason  intuitively — in  other  words,  (guess,"  he 
growled  disgustedly.  "A  dozen  such  rescues  of 
injured  innocence  wouldn't  prove  anything!  It 
isn't  the  vindication  of  the  innocent,  but  the  de 
fense  of  the  guilty  which  develops  the  true  legal 
quality." 

"I'm  not  surprised  that  the  lady  persuaded  you 
of  her  husband's  innocence,"  Garrison  retorted 
dryly.  "She'd  have  convinced  me  too  if  Healey 
hadn't  disregarded  her  advice  and  confessed 
everything  to  me  in  the  end." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Dupont 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  I'll  be— stung!"  he  ejaculated.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  the  fellow  was  guilty  and  she 
knew  it  all  the  time?" 

"That's  what  he  told  me,"  responded  Garrison 
quietly. 

I  touched  the  electric  button  in  the  wall  beside 
me  and  pushed  an  order-card  toward  Lacy. 

"To  the  ladies,  Major?"  I  suggested  gravely. 
The  roar  of  laughter  that  followed  would  have 
been  disconcerting  to  any  man,  but  to  his  credit 
be  it  recorded  that  Lacy  rose  to  the  occasion. 

[49] 


IV 

TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

t 

THE  drowsy  influence  of  a  spring  after 
noon,  combined  with  the  vitiated  atmos 
phere  usual  in  court-rooms,  had  reduced 
the  audience  to  a  condition  of  dreamy  lan 
guor.  A  few  habitues,  revelling  in  the  unaccus 
tomed  luxury  of  free  elbow-room,  sprawled  and 
flopped  on  the  public  benches  in  attitudes  of  list 
less  inattention;  the  lawyers  scattered  behind  the 
rail  lounged  somnolently  on  their  stiff,  uncom 
fortable  chairs;  the  judge  gazed  meditatively  at 
the  colorless  ceiling,  his  leather  chair  tilted  to  the 
limit  of  its  spring;  the  plaintiff's  attorney  sitting 
at  the  counsel's  table  seemed  unconscious  of  his 
opponent  haranguing  the  jury,  and  the  jurors 
themselves  lolled  in  their  seats  and  stared  at  the 
speaker  with  the  un responsiveness  of  tired  cattle. 
But  the  orator  menacing  the  jury-box  was  not 
affected  by  the  soporific  influence  in  the  air.  He 
was  distressingly  active — painfully  alert — and  in 
terpreting  the  trance-like  silence  as  a  tribute  to  his 

[50] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

powers,  he  fairly  danced  before  his  auditors  to 
the  inspiring  strains  of  his  own  elocution.  If  the 
jurymen  were  aware  of  his  presence,  however,  they 
betrayed  it  by  no  outward  or  visible  sign.  Occa 
sionally  when  some  swelling  period  culminated  in 
a  thunderous  shout,  they  slowly  shifted  their  posi 
tions  like  disturbed  sleepers,  but  for  the  most  part 
they  received  the  bursts  of  eloquence  with  the 
impassive  stare  of  deaf  men,  conscious  of  their 
affliction,  but  anxious  to  conceal  it. 

At  last  the  exultant  advocate  crested  a  mighty 
wave  of  words  and  descended  upon  his  audience 
in  a  personal  appeal : 

"What  would  you,  gentleman  of  the  jury,  say 
to  that?  What  would  men  of  brains  make  an 
swer?" 

The  obvious  distinction  between  the  questions 
evoked  no  apparent  resentment  from  the  triple 
row  of  stolid  humanity.  Indeed  the  stupefied 
stare  which  greeted  the  dramatic  pause-for-a-reply 
was  more  eloquent  than  words,  and  noting  it,  the 
counsel  slowly  circled  from  the  lofty  heights  he 
had  been  exploring  down  to  the  common  ground 
of  intimacy. 

"You  have  heard  the  plaintiffs  story,  gentle 
men,"  he  continued  in  a  confidential  tone.  "You 
have  heard  him  claim  that  he  did  not  guarantee 

[51] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

his  merchandise — did  not  warrant  it  would  serve 
our  purpose — did  not  represent  its  quality  at  all ! 
Now  suppose  I  sold  you  potatoes  and  those  pota 
toes  were  so  decayed  you  could  not  eat  them, 
would  it  suffice  me  to  say  I  did  not  warrant  they 
were  fit  for  food?  Would  that  content  you,  Mr. 
Paulding?' 

A  fat-nosed  juror  in  the  second  row  started  at 
the  words  as  though  an  insect  had  suddenly  flown 
into  his  glazed  and  staring  eyes. 

"Would  that  satisfy  you,  Mr.  Thompson?' 

The  foreman,  huddled  in  the  corner  of  the  box, 
pulled  himself  together  at  the  question,  started 
to  answer  it,  but  ended  by  clearing  his  throat. 

"Would  it  serve  me  to  say  I  sold  you  potatoes 
and  not  food?"  continued  the  speaker.  "Would 
it  avail  me  to  protest  I  did  not  know  for  what  pur 
pose  they  were  intended*?  If  I  assaulted  your 
ears  with  such  pretensions  and  insulted  your  in 
telligence  with  such  quibbles,  I  should  expect  to 
be  discredited.  There  are  arguments  one  cannot 
listen  to  without  loss  of  dignity!  Yet  such  is 
the  plaintiff's  plea,  gentlemen.  Will  you  accept 
it,  Mr.  Norton?  Will  you  tolerate  it,  Mr.  Rich 
ards?" 

The  individuals  addressed  wriggled  uneasily 
and  exchanged  imbecile  smiles  of  embarrassment. 

[52] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

"I  venture  to  say  no  such  excuse  was  ever 
dreamed  of  in  the  philosophy  of  business  men! 
It  is  a  device  of  counsel — an  after-thought — a 
subterfuge.  If  I  am  wrong,  however,  Mr.  Pol- 
son?  s  business  experience  of  five-and-thirty  years 
will  demonstrate  my  error,  and  I  appeal  to  him  to 
set  me  right." 

All  eyes  sought  a  gray-haired  man  in  the  top 
row,  who  nervously  cracked  his  knuckle  joints 
without  glancing  at  the  speaker. 

"You  are  here  as  business  men  to  decide  a  busi 
ness  question,"  pursued  the  advocate,  "and  I  feel 
that  I  should  yield  to  you  without  another  word. 
If  you  asked  my  opinion  on  a  point  of  law  Mr. 
Adams " 

The  bench  in  the  center  of  the  box  creaked,  as 
a  fat  man  leaned  forward,  cocking  his  head  atten 
tively  like  a  huge  overfed  bird. 

" If  you  retained  me,  Mr.  A  dams ,  to  advise 

you  on  law,  it  would  be,  I  assume,  because  of  my 
special  study  of  that  subject.  You  are  asked  to 
judge  this  case  for  precisely  the  same  reason — as 
experts  on  the  facts — as  experienced  business  men. 
All  I  can  do  is  to  point  out  the  pitfalls  of  plausi 
bility  into  which  my  ingenious  adversary  will  try 
to  lure  you.  This  is  my  sole  office  in  a  commercial 
controversy.  But  if  I  had  ever  thought  to  instruct 

[53] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

you  in  your  special  province,  the  questions  which 
Mr.  Foster  put  to  one  of  the  witnesses  would  have 
warned  me  of  my  presumption — questions,  gentle 
men,  pregnant  with  meaning,  and  which  paved 
the  way  to  the  pointed  inquiries  of  your  colleague, 
Mr.  Orfon." 

Mr.  Foster  opened  his  mouth  to  protest,  but 
compromised  by  solemnly  spitting  on  the  floor. 
Mr.  Orton  crouched  down  in  his  overcoat  and 
glared  at  his  neighbor  in  disgust. 

"It  was  to  qualify  you  as  experts,  gentlemen, 
that  the  court  permitted  me  to  ask  what  business 
experience  each  of  you  had  had;  and  when  you 
asked  me,  Mr.  Ireland,  if  architecture  was  a  busi 
ness,  you  will  remember  I  answered  that  my  defi 
nition  of  the  word  included  all  callings  which 
involved  a  knowledge  of  those  principles  of  credit 
and  fair  dealing  on  which  the  mighty  commerce  of 
this  country  rests.  Therefore  I  leave  the  matter 
to  you  who  are  trained  in  the  practical  problems 
of  the  workaday  world,  confident  that  if  I  have 
omitted  aught  which  should  be  touched  upon  Mr. 
Lawton  or  Mr.  Innes  or  Mr.  Ferris  is  as  competent 
to  review  it  as  I,  knowing  that  you  are  all  as 
qualified  as  they  to  pass  upon  the  issues  and  ad 
vance  the  cause  of  justice." 

The  orator  resumed  his  seat,  wiping  his  flushed 

[54] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

and  perspiring  face;  the  jurymen  stirred  restlessly 
in  their  seats,  and  the  judge,  dropping  his  chair 
to  its  normal  position,  peered  over  the  edge  of  his 
desk  at  the  plaintiff's  counsel,  who  was  studying  a 
sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  had  penciled  some 
rough  notes. 

"Now,  counselor,"  he  suggested. 

The  jury  settled  back  in  attitudes  of  helpless 
resignation  as  the  lawyer  rose,  recognized  the 
judge  with  a  courteous  inclination  of  his  head,  and 
turning  to  the  jury-box,  gazed  at  its  occupants 
with  an  expression  of  comical  compassion. 

"It  seems  to  me,  fellow  sufferers,"  he  began 
in  a  nasal  and  melancholy  drawl,  "that  somebody 
has  been  calling  you  gentlemen  names." 

A  slight  titter  from  the  back  of  the  room  caused 
the  judge  to  glance  up  sharply. 

"A  reprehensible  habit,  gentlemen,"  continued 
the  speaker,  slowly  and  sadly,  "this  calling  of 
names.  I  wonder  why  my  friend  indulged  in  it? 
Not  to  ingratiate  himself  with  his  audience — not 
to  flatter  you,  I  feel  sure.  The  tribute  which  he 
paid  to  your  intelligence  speaks  for  itself.  Cheap 
methods  are  only  for  cheap  men.  And  yet  as  I 
listened  to  my  friend's  argument  I  was  most  im 
pressed  by  the  masterly  manner  in  which  he  called 
the  roll:  Mr.  Richards,  Mr.  Foster,  Mr.  Adams, 

[55] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

Mr.  Norton,  Mr.  Ferris,  Mr.  Lawton,  Mr.  Ire 
land,  Mr.  Folsom,  Mr.  Thompson,  Mr.  Paulding, 
Mr.  Innes,  Mr.  Orton — all  present  or  accounted 
for  with  the  facility  and  exactness  of  Loisette  of 
blessed  memory." 

The  speaker's  finger  indicated  each  individual, 
and  a  ripple  of  laughter  ran  over  the  room  and 
broke  into  smiles  on  the  juror's  faces. 

"Had  my  friend  felt  doubtful  of  his  cause,'' 
continued  the  attorney,  "had  he  been  short  of  facts 
and  long  of  names,  it  is  possible  that  he  might 
have  reverted  to  that  first  rule  of  pleading,  which 
says,  Tlace  yourself  on  an  intimate,  familiar  foot 
ing  with  your  jurors.'  But  my  opponent  would 
never  have  made  a  crude  application  of  that  rule 
— he  would  not  have  done  things  by  halves.  Had 
he  desired  to  make  you  feel  at  home  with  him  he 
would  have  discarded  formalities.  He  would 
have  called  Mr.  Adams  'Thomas'  and  Mr.  Fol 
som  'Robert';  perhaps  he  would  even  have  re 
ferred  to  Mr.  Benjamin  Ferris  as  'Ben,'  called  Mr. 
Lawton  'Dick,'  and  Mr.  Paulding  'Bill.'  " 

The  speaker  raised  his  eyebrows  in  grave  sur 
prise  as  the  sound  of  laughter  reached  his  ears, 
and  then  continued  imperturbably. 

"Those  who  listened  to  my  friend's  poetic 
flights  know  that  he  does  not  lack  imagination. 

[56] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

Getting  goods  without  paying  for  them  is  not 
poetic.  Yet  divested  of  rhetoric  that's  the  kernel 
of  this  case.  My  friend's  client  has  had  our  cake 
and  eaten  it — and  we  are  having  a  run  for  our 
money.  A  duller,  more  commercial  theme  can 
not  be  imagined.  But  on  my  friend's  lips  the 
bald  prose  of  this  commonplace  controversy 
blossomed  into  poetry  of  eloquence  and  beauty. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  man  who  ef 
fected  such  a  transformation  would  condescend  to 
commonplace  flattery*?  No,  sirs!  If  my  adver 
sary  had  thought  it  necessary  to  gain  your  graces 
by  showing  that  he  knew  your  names,  he  would 
doubtless  have  addressed  you  in  fluent  rhyme  like 
this: 

Richards, 
Foster, 
Adams, 

NORTON! 
Ferris, 
Folsom, 
Innes, 
ORTON! 
Thompson, 
Paulding, 
Ireland, 

LAWTON! 
[57] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

The  judge  rapped  loudly  for  order,  but  the 
room  refused  to  take  his  gavel  seriously  until  he 
himself  had  recovered  his  gravity.  The  counsel 
waited  until  quiet  was  restored,  looking  bored  and 
not  a  little  grieved  at  the  interruption. 

"But  passing  from  rhymes  to  reason,"  he  con 
tinued,  "or,  in  other  words,  from  poetry  to  pota 
toes,  what  do  we  find?  Why,  an  argument  which 
disposes  of  the  suspicion  that  the  able  counsel, 
mistrusting  the  merits  of  his  case,  tried  to  divert 
you  with  poetry,  or  attempted  to  tickle  your  van 
ity  with  straws. 

"Possibly,  however,  in  the  nervous  tension  of 
the  moment — waiting  for  the  next  name  to  be 
called,  and  wondering  which  one  would  be  'It' — 
you  may  have  missed  his  potato  argument.  Let 
me  repeat  it.  If  you  sold  him  rotten  potatoes,  he 
asks,  would  it  serve  you  to  answer  that  you  did 
not  warrant  that  they  were  fit  for  food?  Well, 
gentlemen,  if  he  ate  your  potatoes  and  requested 
more,  I  think  it  might  be  assumed  that  he  ap 
proved  the  quality.  Those  are  precisely  the  facts 
in  this  case.  The  defendant  was  as  familiar  with 
our  goods  as  his  attorney  was  with  your  names. 
He  had  frequently  tried  them  and  found  them  to 
his  liking.  It  hardly  seems  fair,  though,  to  refer 
to  the  testimony,  since  my  opponent  did  not  do  so. 

[58] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

"However,  you  will  remember  what  the  wit 
nesses  said.  But  the  defendant  claims  he  tried 
to  turn  our  goods  into  something  else  and  they 
were  unsuited  to  his  purpose,  and  we  have  no 
right  to  be  paid  for  them,  as  we  should  have 
known  he  could  not  make  what  he  desired  to  make 
with  them.  Suppose  he  had  attempted  to  manu 
facture  cherry  brandy  out  of  your  potatoes,  would 
you  feel  responsible  for  the  failure,  especially  if 
the  price  of  cherry  brandy  had  fallen  shortly  after 
his  experiment*?  But  this  is  another  detail  of 
testimony  which,  perhaps,  I  should  not  touch 
upon.  I  return  again  to  your  names,  upon  which 
my  opponent  loved  to  linger.  Why  he  did  so  is  a 
puzzle,  but  I  have  done  my  best  to  solve  it,  and 
asking,  'What's  in  a  name?'  I  find,  in  the  initial 
letters  of  yours,  a  simple  acrostic,  spelling  out  your 
rightful  verdict." 

The  speaker  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  took  from  the  table  the  sheet  of  paper  on 
which  he  had  been  scribbling  during  his  opponent's 
speech. 

"The  first  letters  of  Foster,  Orton,  .Richards," 
he  continued,  "are  F-O-R — For;  Paulding,  Law- 
ton,  ,4  dams,  Innes,  TVorton,  make  themselves 
P-L-A-I-N — Plain;  and  Thompson,  Ireland,  Fer 
ris,  Folsom  spell  T-I-F-F — tiff;  in  other  words, 

[59] 


TWO  FISHERS  OF  MEN 

Tor  Plaintiff.'  Pray  take  this  significant  arrange 
ment  of  your  names  with  you,  gentlemen,  when 
you  retire  for  your  verdict." 

But  the  jury  never  retired  to  consider  their  ver 
dict.    They  found  it  without  leaving  their  seats. 


[60] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

WEN  Colonel  Van  Vechten's  will  was 
opened  and  it  was  discovered  that  he 
nad  named  one  Bernard  Fleck  as  his 
residuary  legatee,  there  were  many  questions 
asked,  but  few  answered,  concerning  the  unknown 
beneficiary.  Mrs.  Van  Vechten,  however,  vaguely 
recalled  him  as  a  poor  relation  of  some  sort,  and 
further  identification  seemed  unnecessary  at  the 
time,  for  the  Colonel's  prior  bequests  bade  fair  to 
exhaust  his  entire  estate  and  leave  nothing  but  a 
complimentary  mention  for  the  residuary  claim 
ant.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  this  early  estimate  would  have 
been  justified,  but  the  Van  Vechten  property  un 
expectedly  enhanced  in  value,  and  when  it  was 
demonstrated  that  there  would  be  a  twenty-five 
thousand  dollar  surplus  in  the  estate  after  the  pay 
ment  of  all  other  claims,  interest  in  the  person  of 
Bernard  Fleck  speedily  revived. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  a  formal  letter  was 

[61] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

despatched  to  him  requesting  his  attendance  at 
the  offices  of  Eustace,  Deland  &  Delaplaine,  coun- 
selors-at-law,  where  he  would  learn  something  to 
his  immediate  advantage.  Mr.  Eustace  penned 
this  note  himself,  as  became  a  family  solicitor  of 
the  old  school,  whose  black  satin  stock  had  sur 
vived  numerous  decrees  of  fashion  and  was  rap 
idly  coming  into  favor  again,  and  who  regarded 
the  typewriter  as  an  agency  destructive  of  that 
confidence  which  sanctifies  communications  be 
tween  counsel  and  client.  Not  obtaining  any 
answer  to  his  letter  the  senior  partner  wrote  an 
other  at  the  end  of  a  week  and  a  few  days  later 
received  a  strange  reply  dated  Hedden's  Corners, 
March  4. 

"Mr.  Bernard  Fleck  (it  read)  has  got  yours 
and  says  he  doesn't  know  you  and  don't  care  to. 
Likeways  he  states  that  he's  heard  of  your  game 
and  has  no  idee  of  'coming  on.'  So  hopes  you'll 
'come  off.'  " 

Mr.  Eustace  read  this  message  twice,  shook  his 
head  with  a  puzzled  air  and  then  took  it  to  Mr. 
Deland. 

"What  in  the  world  does  this  mean?"  he  de 
manded  gravely  as  he  laid  the  letter  on  his  asso 
ciate's  desk.  "Is  the  man  crazy  or  drunk — or 
what?' 

[62] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

Deland  picked  up  the  half  sheet  of  note-paper 
and  chuckled  softly  to  himself  as  he  read  the 
words  scrawled  upon  it. 

"That  fellow's  all  right!"  he  commented  smil- 
ingly»  "He's  cute — that's  all — too  cute  for  city 
sharks." 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  it 
all  means?" 

Deland  glanced  at  the  old  gentleman's  solemn 
expression  and  suppressed  a  strong  inclination  to 
laugh  in  his  face. 

"Why,  don't  you  see?"  he  began  gravely,  but 
paused  as  he  noticed  the  youngest  member  of  the 
firm  passing  the  door.  "Here,  Delaplaine!"  he 
called  out,  "see  if  you  can  explain  this  to  Mr. 
Eustace.  He  thinks  the  writer's  crazy." 

One  glance  at  the  letter  was  enough  for  the 
junior  partner. 

"Why,  he  takes  you  for  a  bunco-steerer!"  he 
burst  out,  addressing  Mr.  Eustace. 

"A  what?"  demanded  the  old  gentleman. 

"A  bunco-steerer,  sir.  He  believes  you're  try 
ing  a  new  trick  to  make  him  'come  on,'  as  the 
sharpers  say,  and  buy  a  gold-brick.  The  old  bird's 
been  bitten  sometime  or  another  and  doesn't  in 
tend  to  be  nipped  again.  Isn't  it  delicious?" 

"It  is  highly  ridiculous,"  retorted  the  senior 
[63] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

partner  stiffly.  "Send  one  of  the  boys  to  the  fool 
and  explain  the  matter,  but  don't  lead  him  to  ex 
pect  too  much,  or  we'll  have  trouble." 

Mr.  Eustace  stalked  indignantly  from  the  room, 
leaving  his  associates  to  enjoy  the  joke  by  them 
selves. 

"This  is  too  good  to  keep,"  chuckled  Dela- 
plaine  as  the  door  closed. 

"If  it  is,  we'll  have  to  resign  from  the  firm," 
hinted  Deland.  "The  old  man  doesn't  see  any 
thing  funny  in  it  and  he  wouldn't  appreciate  be 
ing  nicknamed  'the  bunco-steerer/  ' 

Delaplaine  nodded  acquiescently,  but  the  story 
did  leak  out  somehow,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the 
clerical  force,  and  when  at  last  the  cautious  legatee 
was  induced  to  call  at  the  office,  everybody,  from 
the  telephone  boy  to  the  junior  partner  took  oc 
casion  to  walk  through  the  library,  where  the  visi 
tor  awaited  Mr.  Eustace's  convenience. 

Bernard  Fleck  was  a  tall,  heavily-built  man, 
well  past  middle  age,  with  gray  hair  and  beard,  a 
clean-shaved  upper  lip  and  a  large  face  deeply 
furrowed  with  wrinkles.  His  rusty  black  clothes 
were  countrified,  but  neat,  his  bumpy  congress 
shoes  highly  polished,  his  linen  frayed  but  clean, 
and  his  black  kid  gloves,  though  worn  to  purple- 
white  at  the  finger-ends,  had  been  mended  with 

[64] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

infinite  care.  Indeed,  the  whole  appearance  of 
the  man  bespoke  self-respecting  poverty  and  child 
like  simplicity.  His  careworn  face,  however,  was 
grave  and  weary  to  the  point  of  sadness,  his  mouth 
and  eyes  alone  suggesting  the  author  of  the  mis 
sive  which  had  ruffled  the  senior  partner's  dignity. 
Mr.  Eustace  was  considerably  older  than  his  new 
client,  but  the  two  men.  had  much  in  common  and 
instinctively  recognized  this  almost  the  moment 
they  were  closeted  together. 

"Our  representative  has,  I  believe,  explained 
the  purport  of  my  letter,"  Mr.  Eustace  began 
stiffly,  after  a  formal  exchange  of  greetings.  Mr. 
Fleck  gravely  nodded  his  massive  head. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  drawled,  slowly  smoothing  his 
old,  silk  hat.  "I  didn't  understand  it  at  first, 
never  havin'  had  any  trouble  with  lawyers  before, 
and  never  hearin'  nothin3  to  their  immediate  ad 
vantage." 

Mr.  Eustace  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  speaker, 
but  detected  no  signs  of  levity  in  his  impassive 
stare. 

"Did  you  know  your  cousin  well,  Mr.  Fleck*?" 
he  continued  after  a  pause. 

"Colonel  Van  Vechten*?  No,  sir.  I  hired  some 
money  from  him  one  time  when  the  children  was 

[65] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

sick,  but  he  got  it  back  long  time  'go  and  I  ain't 
had  no  dealings  with  him  since." 

The  conversation  flagged  again  and  the  visitor 
calmly  drew  a  copy  of  the  local  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  settled  back  to  read  it  with  the  utmost 
unconcern.  Mr.  Eustace  covered  his  embarrass 
ment  by  hunting  for  a  memorandum  among  the 
papers  on  his  desk. 

"Did  our  representative  inform  you  of  the 
amount  of  your  legacy,  Mr.  Fleck*?"  he  inquired 
at  last. 

The  old  man  looked  up  from  his  reading  as  he 
heard  the  question  and  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir,"  he  answered  thoughtfully.  "I  ain't 
seen  nobody  except  the  young  feller  that  came  to 
the  Corners,  but  he  let  on  ther  might  be  a  few 
hundreds  lyin'  'round  loose  after  the  rest  of  the 
folks  got  what  was  comin'  to  'em." 

"A  few  thousands,"  asserted  Mr.  Eustace, 
glancing  up  from  his  memorandum  to  note  the 
effect  of  this  correction. 

Mr.  Fleck  laid  aside  his  paper  and  stared  at 
the  lawyer  in  silent  bewilderment. 

"Thousands,  eh?"  he  ejaculated  at  last.  "Well, 
I  want  to  know !" 

"We  hardly  know  ourselves  just  yet,  Mr. 
[66] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

Fleck,  but  I  think  you  may  count  on  receiving 
eventually  say — er — three  thousand  or  so." 

Mr.  Eustace  watched  the  expression  of  intense 
astonishment  which  greeted  this  cautious  state 
ment,  and  mentally  determined  that  it  would  be 
unwise  to  advise  the  legatee  of  the  full  extent  of 
his  fortune  at  once.  It  might  unsettle  his  mind. 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  quite  three  thou 
sand,"  he  ventured  gravely. 

Mr.  Fleck  sat  speechless  for  some  moments  and 
then,  drawing  a  long  breath,  whistled  softly. 

"Three  thousand !"  he  murmured  at  last.  "My, 
but  that  sounds  sorter  bulky!"  he  chuckled,  as 
though  submitting  the  matter  to  a  jocular  test. 
"Never  had  as  much  in  all  my  life,  lawyer,"  he 
volunteered  after  a  pause. 

Mr.  Eustace  beamed  as  he  noticed  the  old- 
fashioned  title.  The  fellow  was  a  quaint,  simple 
character,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  him  with  be 
nevolent  interest. 

"You've  worked  hard  all  your  life,  too,  I  ex 
pect,  Mr.  Fleck,"  he  suggested  sympathetically. 

"Yes,  sir — yes,  sir,"  the  old  man  ruminated. 
"I've  done  my  share  of  up-hill  hauls,  but  never 
got  ahead  much.  Six  children  is  quite  a  heavy 
load  for  one  pair  of  shafts,  but  I've  kept  a  pullin' 
and  mother's  kept  a  pushin'  and  the  wagon  ain't 

[67] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

never  stopped  for  long.  Never,  except  when  our 
eldest  boy  went.  Then  I  reckon  we  did  sit  down 
for  a  spell." 

Mr.  Fleck  removed  his  spectacles  and  wiped 
his  glasses  with  his  newspaper,  while  Mr.  Eustace 
glanced  discreetly  out  of  the  side  window. 

"What  is  your  business,  Mr.  Fleck?"  he  in 
quired  after  a  pause. 

"Well,  sir,  I've  done  a  power  of  things  one 
time  an'  'nother,  but  for  the  last  fifteen  years 
I've  been  handlin'  freight  down  to  the  X.  &  C. 
yards." 

"Handling  freight?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  actually  handled  none  for  five — 
six  years — not  bein'  as  husky  as  I  was,  but  I  keep 
tabs  on  it,  check  bills  lading  and  such.  It's  light, 
but  long." 

"The  X.  &  C.  pays  well,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  what  they  ought  to,  seeing  the  piles  o* 
money  they  make,"  the  old  man  asserted.  "But 
they  give  sixty  a  month  and  we've  done  with 
less." 

Sixty  a  month,  to  keep  this  hard-working  fel 
low  and  six  others !  Clients  interested  in  the  rail 
roads  had  recently  been  complaining  to  Mr.  Eus 
tace  about  the  extravagant  management  of  the 
company.  There  was  certainly  no  waste  in  wages 
[68] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

here,  though  it  might  indicate  a  penny-wise- 
pound-foolish  policy.  Colonel  Van  Vechten's 
money  was  going  to  the  right  people,  and  Mr. 
Eustace  played  delightedly  with  the  thought  of 
the  surprise  he  had  in  store. 

"Well,  Mr.  Fleck,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  congratu 
late  you  on  your  cousin's  generosity.  You  will 
have  a  tidy  sum  for  a  rainy  day." 

The  old  man  nodded  reflectively. 

"Three  thousand?  Yes,  it'll  sure  help — when 
we  get  it,"  he  added  doubtfully. 

"You  will  have  it  in  a  few  months  at  most." 

Mr.  Fleck's  solemn  countenance  relaxed  in  a 
broad  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"Do  tell!"  he  ejaculated  gleefully. 

Then  his  smile  disappeared  under  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt. 

"Reckon  I  won't  tell  mother  till  it's  cash 
money,"  he  remarked  warily.  "Something  might 
happen,  eh?" 

"I  don't  think  so  But  perhaps  it's  best  to  be 
on  the  safe  side." 

Mr.  Eustace  chuckled  J;ke  a  boy  over  his  secret, 
as  he  offered  his  hand  at  parting,  and  the  old 
countryman  stood  grasping  it  for  some  time  as 
though  lost  in  thought. 

"It'd  be  kinder  good  to  make  it  an  even  five — 

[69] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

wouldn't  it?"  he  confided  in  an  absent-minded 
way. 

Mr.  Eustace  instantly  dropped  his  visitor's 
hand.  There  was  something  jarring  in  the  wist 
ful  tone  of  his  voice — something  which,  in  Mr. 
Fleck,  sounded  like  avarice  and  ingratitude,  and 
marred  the  perfection  of  the  coming  surprise. 

"Don't  get  your  expectations  too  high,  my 
friend,"  he  remarked  warningly.  "However,  call 
again  in  two  or  three  days,  and  perhaps  we  will 
make  you  a  payment  on  account.  I  want  you  to 
look  upon  yourself  as  a  client  of  this  office,  Mr. 
Fleck,"  he  went  on  paternally,  "and  we  want 
every  client  to  regard  us  as  friends.  Your  inter 
ests  are  our  interests,  and  your  affairs  will  receive 
the  same  attention  as  would  be  given  them  were 
you  our  only  client." 

Mr.  Fleck  departed  with  clumsy  expressions  of 
simple  gratitude,  and,  returning  at  the  end  of  a 
week,  received  a  check  for  three  thousand  dollars, 
and  a  delicate  intimation  that  more  might  be 
forthcoming  in  another  month.  But  he  only 
winked  incredulously  as  Mr.  Eustace  broadened 
the  hint. 

"Blessed  are  them  as  don't  expect  nothin',  for 
they  don't  get  left,"  he  quoted.  "I  seen  that  in  a 

[70] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

calendar,"  he  added  jocosely  as  he  departed,  leav 
ing  Mr.  Eustace  in  a  genial  glow  of  good-will. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  he  reappeared  as  calm, 
respectable  and  simple  as  ever,  but  with  a  weekly 
edition  of  the  city  paper  instead  of  the  local  sheet 
bulging  from  his  pocket.  He'd  taken  a  day  off, 
as  the  railroad  was  blocked  by  a  wash-out,  and  no 
freight  was  coming  through,  he  explained  to  his 
counsel.  It  must  have  been  a  bad  year  for  the 
railroads,  Mr.  Eustace  reflected,  what  with  storms 
and  floods  and  traffic  disturbances  of  all  kinds. 
Mr.  Fleck  didn't  see  this.  Only  made  delay,  he 
asserted.  Railroad  got  all  the  freight  there  was 
anyway,  and  it  didn't  make  no  particular  differ 
ence  which  day  they  carried  it  on — act  of  God 
protectin'  them  against  damages. 

Mr.  Eustace  felt  himself  resenting  an  expres 
sion  of  opinion  on  the  part  of  Bernard  Fleck. 

What  business  had  the  fellow  to  contradict  a 
man  versed  in  large  affairs!  The  idea  of  his  as 
serting  his  country-store  opinions  on  railroading 
to  the  legal  adviser  of  the  largest  creditors  of 
the  very  railroad  he  was  talking  about!  If  this 
was  the  effect  of  a  little  money,  the  next  install 
ment  would  make  him  insufferable. 

It  was  a  trifling  matter,  but  Mr.  Eustace  ex 
perienced  a  distinct  sense  of  disappointment  in  the 

[71] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

man,  which  culminated  in  his  calm  reception  of 
the  news  that  there  was  $10,000  more  to  his  credit 
from  the  Van  Vechten  legacy. 

"I  kinder  hoped  it  might  be  more,"  was  all  he 
said. 

Some  six  weeks  passed  before  the  office  saw 
him  again,  but  Mr.  Eustace  was  out  when  he 
called,  and  this  seemed  to  make  the  visitor  nerv 
ous  and  ill  at  ease.  He  no  longer  sat  quietly  in 
the  library,  but  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room  or  stood  anxiously  peering  out  of  the  win 
dow.  One  of  the  boys  offered  him  a  morning 
paper  to  pass  the  time  away,  but  he  answered 
roughly  that  he'd  read  it  and  it  was  nothing  but 
a  pack  of  lies  anyway.  Gol  darn  such  stuff !  He 
pulled  his  own  crumpled  copy  from  his  pocket  and 
tossed  it  disgustedly  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

Mr.  Eustace,  returning  to  the  office,  wasted  no 
time  in  pleasing  preliminaries,  as  on  former  occa 
sions,  but  proceeded  straight  to  business.  He  had 
lost  interest  in  Bernard  Fleck  at  their  last  inter 
view,  and  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  planning 
to  surprise  a  man  who  expected  more  than  he 
would  receive.  With  a  clear,  business-like  ac 
count  in  his  hand,  the  senior  partner  explained 
that  there  was  a  balance  of  $12,000  still  remain 
ing  in  the  estate,  took  a  receipt  for  all  but  $2,ooo, 

[72] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

and  requested  Mr.  Fleck  to  call  in  another  month 
and  close  the  entire  transaction. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  assist  you  in  investing 
the  money,  Mr.  Fleck,  if  you  care  for  advice,"  he 
remarked  coldly  as  he  wrote  out  a  check  for  the 
third  payment  on  account. 

"I  reckon  I  know  a  stocking  this'll  fit  into,"  the 
old  man  responded,  with  a  glance  of  suspicion. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  Mr.  Eustace  answered 
testily,  "but  a  good  mortgage  pays  better  than 
the  toes  of  stockings,  and  it's  quite  as  safe." 

"Mortgage,  eh?'  sniffed  Mr.  Fleck.  "There's 
a  Jew-man,  down  our  way,  hires  out  all's  needed 
in  that  line,  and  I  don't  reckon  to  compete  with 
him." 

Mr.  Eustace  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  de 
livered  the  check  into  his  client's  ready  hand,  and 
then  suggestively  rang  the  bell  upon  his  desk. 

Although  Mr.  Fleck  reappeared  two  weeks  ahead 
of  his  next  appointment,  he  had  changed  so 
greatly  in  the  interval  that  the  clerks  in  the  outer 
office  scarcely  recognized  him.  Not  only  had  his 
face  aged,  but  his  whole  appearance  and  manner 
had  suffered  an  alarming  transformation.  He 
hurried  breathlessly  into  the  office  and,  gripping 
the  nearest  boy  by  the  shoulder,  demanded  an  im 
mediate  interview  with  Mr.  Eustace.  The  startled 

[73] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

youngster  slipped  from  under  his  grasp  and  in 
formed  him  that  the  boss  was  out. 

"You  lie — gol  darn  you !"  shouted  the  old  man, 
threatening  the  lad  with  his  stick.  The  uproar 
which  ensued  brought  Mr.  Delaplaine  to  his  door. 

"What's  the  matter  here4?"  he  demanded 
sternly  of  a  clerk  who  had  armed  himself  with  an 
inkstand. 

"Matter!"  roared  the  old  man.  "Hell's  the 
matter !  That's  what !  Here  I  come  for  my  money 
and  this  unlicked  pup  up  and  tells  me  his  boss  is 
out.  I  know  that  game!  It's  been  tried  before. 
He  was  out  last  time  when  I  wanted  him  to  pay 
up,  but  I  ain't  got  no  time  for  foolin'  now,  and 
I'll  have  what's  comin'  to  me  right  away  quick, 
or  know  the  reason  why !" 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Fleck,"  commanded  Delaplaine 
sharply.  "There's  not  the  slightest  occasion  for 
excitement  or  disturbance  of  any  sort.  Sit  down 
and  I'll  see  you  in  a  few  moments." 

"You'll  see  me  now,  young  feller!"  shouted  the 
angry  visitor,  striding  forward.  "I  tell  you  I 
ain't  got  no  time  for  foolin'  or  being  fooled.  It's 
a  matter  of  life  and  death,  man!"  he  whispered 
hoarsely,  as  he  reached  the  junior  partner's  side. 
Delaplaine  caught  the  beseeching  note  in  this  wild 
appeal  and  quickly  took  his  cue. 

[74] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

"Come  in  here,  sir"  he  directed,  and,  motioning 
the  excited  man  into  his  private  room,  stepped 
inside  and  calmly  closed  the  door. 

Mr.  Fleck  staggered  to  a  chair  and  immediately 
collapsed,  burying  his  head  in  his  arms  and  breath 
ing  heavily  in  tremulous,  nervous  gasps.  Mr. 
Delaplaine  watched  him  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
and  then,  stepping  forward,  laid  a  gentle  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Fleck5?"  he  inquired 
kindly.  "Are  you  ill?" 

"It's  my  head!"  panted  the  old  man,  raising 
his  haggard  face  from  his  arms.  "The  figures  are 
driving  me  crazy!  I'm  mad  with  'em  already! 
But  I  can't  understand — I  just  can't  under 
stand!" 

He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  brow  and,  staring 
straight  before  him,  rocked  back  and  forth  as  he 
moaned  the  words  in  a  pitiful,  broken  voice. 

"Perhaps  I  could  help  you  if  you'd  tell  me  what 
the  trouble  is.  I'm  pretty  good  at  figures,"  sug 
gested  Delaplaine. 

The  old  man  ceased  his  rocking  and  looked  up 
at  the  young  lawyer  with  hopeful  confidence. 

"By  gum,  I'll  try  ye!"  he  burst  out  suddenly. 
"Here!  See  what  you  kin  make  of  these,  and 
these,  and  these !" 

[75] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

He  tore  a  bundle  of  papers  from  his  inside 
pocket,  tossed  it  on  the  table,  and  then  fishing  out 
some  loose  sheets,  soiled  with  handling,  smashed 
them  down  on  top  of  the  bundle. 

Delaplaine  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and,  seat 
ing  himself,  picked  up  the  crumpled  papers.  One 
glance  was  enough  to  make  him  spring  to  his  feet, 
the  papers  shaking  in  his  hands.  "You  have  been 
speculating  in  X.  &  C.?"  he  cried  incredulously. 

"Speculatin3  ?"  repeated  the  old  man.  "No,  sir, 
I  ain't  been  speculatin' — I've  been  investin'.  I 
didn't  know  nothing  'cept  about  X.  &  C.,  but  I 
seen  what  they  was  doin' ;  so  when  I  got  the  three 
thousand  off  Mr.  Eustace,  I  thought  I'd  just  make 
it  five  by  buy  in'  what  I  knowed  was  good.  But 
something  went  wrong,  and  the  brokers  said  I 
could  even  up  by  buyin'  lower  an'  averagin',  and 

"You  put  the  next  ten  in^"  interrupted  Dela 
plaine  aghast. 

"I  bought  enough  to  make  the  first  lot  a  sight 
cheaper,"  responded  the  old  man.  "And  it  was 
cheap,  too!"  he  added  defiantly.  "I  reckon  I 
ought  to  know  with  the  heap  o'  business  I  see 
doing  every  day  'long  at  the  Corners.  I  tell  you 
there's  something  wrong  with  them  figures!"  he 

[76] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

burst  out  fiercely.  "They're  fixed  up  to  cheat  me, 
but  I'll  beat 'em  yet!" 

Delaplaine  had  taken  down  the  pile  of  can 
celled  checks  in  the  Van  Vechten  estate  as  Fleck 
talked  and  was  feverishly  examining  the  indorse 
ments.  Every  one  of  those  drawn  to  the  residuary 
legatee  had  been  transferred  directly  to  the  Wall 
Street  firm,  whose  complicated  statements  lay 
scattered  on  the  table,  and  the  lawyer  dropping 
the  checks,  eagerly  scanned  the  last  brokerage  ac 
count  submitted  to  Mr.  Fleck.  It  showed  a  bal 
ance  of  barely  $1,000. 

"Is  this  all  there  is  left?"  he  demanded  of  the 
crushed  figure  in  the  chair. 

"They  say  they  got  to  have  two  thousand 
more!"  was  the  hopeless  answer,  and  Mr.  Fleck 
held  out  a  letter  in  his  trembling  hands.  Dela 
plaine  snatched  it  from  him  and  read  a  demand 
for  $2,000  more  margin,  to  protect  the  stock  al 
ready  purchased,  or  it  would  have  to  be  sold  and 
all  would  be  lost. 

"And  all  will  be  lost!"  he  repeated  scornfully. 
We'll  save  what's  left  anyway!"  he  muttered, 
snatching  the  telephone  receiver  from  its  hook 

Mr.  Fleck  sprang  to  his  feet  as  he  heard  the 
words,  his  eyes  flashing  excitedly.  "Yes,  by  gum ! 

[77] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

We'll  save  it — save  it  all !"  he  shouted.  "Get  the 
two  thousand — quick !" 

"Keep  still !"  commanded  Delaplaine  impa 
tiently.  "We'll  throw  no  more  good  money  after 
bad.  Let  them  sell!"  he  added,  as  he  called  up 
the  brokers'  number. 

"Let  them  sell!  N-e-v-e-r!  Here!  Give  me 
my  money!  What — you  won't?"  roared  the  old 
man,  dragging  Delaplaine  from  his  desk.  "I  tell 
ye  I've  got  to  have  it,  and  if  I  don't  I'll " 

The  door  opened  and  Mr.  Eustace  stood  upon 
the  threshold. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this  disturbance?" 
he  demanded. 

"He  won't  give  me  my  money!"  shouted  Fleck. 
"But  I'll  get  it  out  of  you — you  old " 

The  speaker  stopped,  glared  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sank  back  exhausted  in  the  chair. 

"Is  he  mad?"  demanded  Eustace. 

"Nearly,"  panted  Delaplaine.  "He's  been 
speculating  in  X.  &  C.,"  he  whispered. 

"In  X.  &  C. !  Good  God !  I've  just  won  our 
motion  appointing  a  receiver!  Doesn't  he  know 
we're  the  attorneys  for  the  creditors  and " 

"Hush!"  implored  Delaplaine.  "He  won't 
understand !" 

[78] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

But  the  old  man  had  already  caught  the  words 
and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  roar. 

"So,  it's  you  that's  been  workin'  again'  me — 
is  it?"  he  yelled,  his  face  purple  with  rage. 

"Calm  yourself,  Mr.  Fleck,"  commanded  Mr. 
Eustace  sympathetically. 

"Been  plannin*  to  ruin  me  all  the  time — eh? 
,Yer  Judas!" 

The  old  man's  voice  broke  on  the  words  and 
he  paused,  glaring  wildly  at  his  counsel. 

"Waited  to  get  my  money  in  the  road  before 
yer  bust  it,  and " 

"The  road  has  not  been  solvent  for  years,  sir," 
interrupted  Mr.  Eustace  indignantly.  "If  you 
had  consulted  us,  we  would  have  told  you  the 
condition  of  affairs  and  saved  you " 

"Saved  me!  Yer've  sold  me  out — damn  yer! 
But  nothin'  '11  save  yer  now !" 

There  was  a  rush  and  whir  of  a  heavy  stick 
through  the  air,  and  Delaplaine  pulled  his  asso 
ciate  aside  just  as  the  lamp  on  the  table  was  shiv 
ered  into  splinters,  and  the  giant  figure  of  the 
frenzied  client  crashed  forward  over  the  ruins. 
In  another  moment  he  was  harmless  in  strong 
arms,  and  Mr.  Delaplaine  was  madly  telephoning 
the  brokers  to  sell  out.  But  he  was  too  late.  The 
market  had  fallen  again  on  the  news  of  the  re- 

[79] 


THE  UNEARNED  INCREMENT 

ceivership,  and  Bernard  Fleck  already  owed  more 
than  twice  the  $2,000  still  due  him  from  the  Van 
Vechten  estate. 

His  frenzy  had  apparently  expended  itself  with 
his  fall  on  the  table,  and  he  was  quite  docile  and 
passive  by  the  time  a  doctor  arrived.  For  some 
days  he  remained  dazed,  but  gradually  recovered 
with  careful  nursing  in  Mr.  Eustace's  own  home. 

Finally,  when  the  exact  condition  of  his  affairs 
was  explained  to  him  by  his  host,  he  faced  the 
disaster  with  the  same  calm  he  had  displayed  at 
the  discovery  of  his  fortune.  Of  the  two,  Mr. 
Eustace  was  the  more  affected.  Indeed,  there 
were  signs  of  a  tear  in  the  senior  partner's  eyes 
as  he  bade  his  guest  good-by. 

"I'm  sorry — more  sorry  than  I  can  say,  Mr. 
Fleck,"  he  whispered,  as  he  pressed  his  visitor's 
hand  at  parting.  "Sorry  for  you  and  the  mother 
• — and — everybody." 

The  old  man  nodded  comprehendingly,  and  a 
faint  smile  flickered  for  a  moment  on  his  trem 
bling  lips. 

"Blessed  are  them  as  don't  expect  nothing," 
he  quoted  musingly.  "Guess  the  only  smart  thing 
I  done  was  rememberin'  that  motto.  .  .  .  Things 
can  go  on  'bout  the  same,  I  reckon.  I've  never  let 
on  to  the  folks  at  The  Corners." 

[80] 


VI 
THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

GORDON  told  us  this  story  about  Carteret 
one  evening  in  the  club  corner  shortly 
after  the  distinguished  lawyer  died. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  conversation  which  led 
up  to  the  tale  to  justify  me  in  thinking  it  referred 
to  Carteret  and  perhaps  my  guess  would  never 
have  been  confirmed  had  it  not  been  for  Mason's 
assertiveness. 

The  story,  as  I  remember  it,  ran  something  like 
this: 

The  Christmas  dance  at  the  Country  Club  had 
lasted  until  the  "wee  sma'  hours"  of  the  morning, 
when  trains  to  town  were  few  and  far  between, 
and  the  poker  party,  inaugurated  as  a  stop-gap, 
ran  far  beyond  its  time  limit.  Therefore,  when 
Gordon  reached  his  rooms  and  found  a  note  in 
structing  him  to  appear  for  his  client,  The  Mer 
chants'  Telegraph  Company,  in  the District 

Police  Court  at  9  A.  M.,  he  had  barely  time  to 
reach  the  court  before  the  calendar  was  called. 

[81] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

However,  as  the  court  room  was  cold,  no  one  sus 
pected  that  his  long  overcoat  concealed  a  dress 
suit.  But  Gordon  was  unpleasantly  conscious  of 
it  as  he  stood  near  the  Judge's  desk  and  watched 
the  long  line  of  prisoners  file  across  the  "Bridge." 
There  was  nothing  new  to  him  in  the  sight  of 
those  miserables.  He  had  seen  them — or  others 
like  them — arraigned  on  that  bridge  dozens  of 
times.  It  is  not  a  cheerful  picture  under  any 
circumstances,  but,  contrasted  with  the  light  and 
laughter  and  music  of  the  Country  Club,  it  sug 
gested  uncomfortable  comparisons.  Gordon  stud 
ied  the  sickly  faces,  noted  the  blotched  complex 
ions  and  the  bleary,  tired  eyes,  and  read  in  them 
the  story  of  wasted  and  wasting  lives.  He  knew 
the  advisability  of  controlling  police  court 
sympathy,  but  this  morning  was  an  exception,  and 
he  permitted  himself  to  moralize. 

Had  those  unfortunates  all  had  a  fair  chance 
in  life?  Was  that  battered  and  tattered  creature 
over  there  solely  responsible  for  his  condition? 
Would  that  hard-faced  girl  with  the  damp,  drag 
gled  skirt,  leaning  against  the  wall,  be  in  that  line 
if  her  circumstances  had  been  a  little — ever  so 
little — different?  What  was  the  distinction  be 
tween  the  dissipated-looking  young  fellow  near- 
ing  the  bridge  and  the  befuddled  gentlemen  who 

[82] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

were  probably  still  in  the  card-room  of  the  Coun 
try  Club? 

A  policeman  roughly  jostled  some  of  the  pris 
oners  near  Gordon,  swearing  fiercely  at  them 
under  his  breath,  and  the  lawyer  quietly  protested. 

"Aw,  they're  nothin'  but  bums!"  was  the  whis 
pered  answer. 

A  white-haired  old  woman,  soiled  and  ragged 
to  the  point  of  filth,  and  so  feeble  that  she  could 
not  ascend  the  bridge,  stood  beneath  the  Judge's 
desk. 

"Vagrancy,"  reported  the  officer. 

The  Judge  gave  a  quick  glance  of  recognition 
at  the  squalid  figure. 

"Ten  days,  Mary,'  he  ordered. 

A  protesting  mutter  caught  his  ear. 

"What  does  she  say,  officer?"  he  asked. 

The  policeman  bent  down  to  the  prisoner. 

"She  says  won't  you  please  give  her  three 
months,"  he  reported. 

"I  said  ten  days,"  answered  the  Judge  impa 
tiently.  "Tell  her  it's  only  ten." 

The  officer  stooped  and  whispered  again. 

"She  says  won't  you  please  give  her  more,  your 
Honor.  Says  she's  nowhere  to  go  and  ten  days' 11 
turn  her  out  in  cold  weather.  Wants  your  Honor 

[83] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

to  remember  it's  near  Christmas  time,"  the  man 
added  with  a  grin. 

"Make  it  three  months,"  corrected  the  magis 
trate,  not  unkindly,  but  without  smiling. 

Police  courts  unsettle  one's  sense  of  humor. 

The  dissipated-looking  young  man  whom  Gor 
don  had  previously  noticed  was  facing  the  Judge. 
He  nodded  at  the  question,  "Is  that  your  name?" 
and  leaned  indifferently  against  the  railing  of  the 
bridge.  He  was  shabbily  dressed,  dirty  and  dis 
heveled.  But  there  was  something  in  his  attitude 
which  showed  a  spirit  of  self-respecting  independ 
ence  just  verging  upon  defiance.  Gordon  had 
noted  the  flash  of  his  eyes  when  a  policeman  had 
hastened  him  forward  with  a  push.  Few  of  the 
herd  resent  handling — not  many  of  them  notice 
it,  and  Gordon  concluded  that  the  man  was  not 
yet  accustomed  to  police  court  familiarity. 

Intoxication  and  disorderly  conduct  was  the 
charge,  and  the  complainant,  a  red-faced,  bull- 
necked  individual,  was  present  to  support  it. 
What  had  the  prisoner  to  say"? 

Nothing  much.  He  had  stopped  at  the  com 
plainant's  stable  and  begged  a  lodging  for  his  dog. 
It  was,  it  appeared,  more  difficult  to  house  one's 
dog  than  to  take  care  of  one's  self  when  very  out- 
at-elbows.  Most  people  seem  to  think  a  poor  man 

[84] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

shouldn't  own  a  dog.  The  prisoner  had  slept  in 
the  public  square  for  two  nights  because  no  lodg 
ing-house  would  receive  him  and  the  dog,  too.  So 
he  had  addressed  the  stable  man  very  civilly.  "Go 
to  the  devil !"  was  the  answer.  The  prisoner  sug 
gested  that  the  complainant  meant  "come,"  but 
admitted  his  authority  to  issue  the  invitation. 
Whereupon  the  complainant  kicked  at  the  dog 
and  missed  him,  and  the  prisoner  struck  at  the 
stable  man  and  didn't  miss  him.  That  was  all 
there  was  to  it  except  that  he  had  had  a  few  drinks 
at  the  nearest  saloon.  You  have  to  have  rum  in 
you  for  a  night  on  the  benches  in  December. 

Had  he  ever  been  arrested  before*?  Yes,  he 
had.  Once  for  being  drunk  and  once  for  steal 
ing  a  ride  on  the  cars. 

The  answer  was  given  with  most  impudent  de 
fiance. 

"Ten  dollars " 

"I  haven't  got  a  cent,  Judge.'* 

" Or  ten  days." 

"Get  down — step  lively !" 

"Wait  a  moment,  officer!" 

Gordon  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  pris 
oner  and  then  turned  and  addressed  the  Court. 

"If  your  Honor  please,"  he  began,  "this  pris 
oner  has  not  asked  me  to  represent  him,  nor  do  I 

[85] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

voluntarily  appear  for  him.  I  ask  a  hearing  only 
as  'friend  of  the  Court.'  " 

The  Judge  smiled  and  nodded. 

Then  Gordon  commenced  what  he  claimed 
would  have  been  the  greatest  speech  of  his  life 
had  he  not,  in  his  earnestness,  unbuttoned  his 
overcoat  and  thrown  it  wide  open,  exposing  his 
evening  dress  to  the  garish  light  of  day.  A  shout 
of  laughter  from  the  audience  instantly  stopped 
his  eloquence — and  the  shout  became  a  roar  as 
Gordon  glanced  down  at  his  clothes  in  dismay 
and  hastily  tried  to  cover  them  with  the  wide 
flung  lapels.  In  his  haste,  however,  the  buttons 
seemed  greased  and  all  his  fingers  proved  thumbs. 
No  sooner  did  he  fasten  one  button  than  another 
slipped  out,  and  at  every  fumble  the  audience 
roared  anew,  until  at  last,  when  he  ceased  strug 
gling  and  stood  upright  with  every  button  forced 
into  the  wrong  buttonhole  and  the  overcoat  welt 
ed  and  skewed  out  of  all  shape,  they  absolutely 
howled — men  and  women — rocking  to  and  fro  on 
the  benches  and  slapping  one  another's  shoulders 
in  their  joy. 

"Shure,  yur  Anner!"  burst  out  Counselor  Fin- 
negan,  rising  from  his  seat  and  wiping  the  tears 
from  his  eyes,  "shure,  yur  Anner — I  know  what  is 
meant  by — by  a  court  costume.  But  I  trust,  your 

[86] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

Anner,  it'll  create  no  precedint,  for  t'would  be 
hard  sometimes  to  tell  the  prisoners  from  the 
counsel  after  a  good  night  haul !  However,  yur 
Anner,  our  friend  Mr.  Gordon  is  after  making 
a  great  speech  and  I'll  go  bail  his  man's  a  good 
man.  I  want  to  contribute  a  dollar  toward  payin' 
his  fine.  Shure  I've  had  that  much  fun !" 

He  handed  a  bill  to  Gordon  as  he  spoke.  There 
were  people  in  that  audience,  however,  who  took 
Finnegan  more  seriously  than  he  intended.  A 
woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  stepped  for 
ward  and  handed  Gordon  a  quarter — and  a  burly 
tough  followed  with  fifty  cents. 

"Your  attorney's  a  dude — but  you're  all 
right !"  he  whispered  to  the  prisoner. 

"We  sports  have  got  to  stand  by  one  another," 
confided  a  horsey-looking  personage  as  he  pushed 
some  loose  change  into  Gordon's  hand.  "Say, 
what  kind  of  a  dog's  yours?"  he  added,  turning 
to  the  prisoner. 

"I'll  be  a  dollar  shy  if  he  fines  me  ten,  but  I 
reckon  one  day  more  or  less  won't  hurt  me," 
vouchsafed  a  rum-soaked  character  in  the  line,  as 
he  stepped  forward  and  contributed  a  greasy  bill. 

"It's  a  Christmas  present,"  whispered  the  hard- 
faced  girl  as  she  handed  Gordon  a  quarter. 

"They're  not  all  bums,"  admitted  the  officer 

[87] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

whom  Gordon  had  reproved.    "Take  this  for  your 
man." 

The  fine  was  subscribed  for  and  paid  within 
five  minutes. 

Then  Gordon  turned  toward  the  prisoner, 
looked  him  squarely  in  the  eyes  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"This  is  Christmastide,  my  friend,"  he  said. 
"A  New  Year  is  coming.  You  are  free  to  make 
what  you  will  of  it.  But  more  than  a  dozen  men 
and  women  in  this  room  have  said  to-day  that  they 
believe  in  you.  It's  the  judgment  of  your  peers,, 
man — don't  forget  that.  It's  the  judgment  of 
your  peers." 

He  never  forgot  it,  Gordon  told  us.  But  more 
than  that  he  would  not  say. 


It  was  some  time  after  Gordon  told  this  yarn 
that  the  antecedents  of  certain  well-known  people 
were  under  discussion  in  the  club  corner. 

"There's  a  lot  of  queer  history  about  New 
Yorkers  that's  never  been  written,"  observed 
Wilder  regretfully. 

"I'd  heard  that  Carteret  had  a  variegated 
career,"  I  ventured. 

[88] 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  PEERS 

"He  did,"  asserted  Mason.  "He  began  life  as 
a  waiter." 

Gordon  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  he  did,"  insisted  Mason.  "He  was  a 
waiter  in  a  beefsteak  restaurant  on  Sixth  Avenue. 
I've  forgotten  the  name  of  the  place,  but " 

"The  story  does  him  no  harm,"  interrupted 
Gordon  quietly,  "but  it  isn't  true." 

"Well,  I  know  it  is!"  contradicted  Mason  ag 
gressively. 

"And  I  know  it  isn't,"  retorted  Gordon  im 
patiently.  "Carteret's  first  job  in  this  city  was 
as  an  usher  in  the  Bentic  Theater.  I  ought  to 
know,"  he  added  in  a  low  tone;  "I  gave  him  his 
first  dress  suit." 


[89] 


VII 
OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

GRATITUDE  may  be  a  lively  sense  of 
future  favor,  but  it  was  not  so  in 
Clancey's  case.  He  had  never  required  my 
professional  services  but  once,  and  I  do  not  now 
recall  the  details  of  the  legal  tangle  from  which 
I  originally  extricated  him.  But  Clancey  did  not 
forget  the  occasion,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
and  the  result  was  that  I  became,  in  his  fond  eyes, 
a  sort  of  patron  saint  to  whom  it  behooved  him  to 
pay  his  respects  at  more  or  less  regular  intervals. 
Of  course  I  appreciated  his  kindly  attention,  but 
I  must  confess  that  his  visits  to  my  office  were  not 
an  unmitigated  joy,  for  he  usually  contrived  to 
appear  at  an  inconvenient  hour  and  always  out 
wore  his  welcome.  Indeed,  after  the  customary 
greetings  had  been  exchanged  he  never  had  a 
word  to  say  for  himself,  and  as  he  made  no  at 
tempt  to  respond  to  my  conversational  efforts  we 
were  soon  reduced  to  staring  at  each  other  with 
cheerful  imbecility. 

[90] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

Uncomfortable  as  these  deadly  pauses  were  to 
me  they  did  not  appear  to  disconcert  Clancey.  He 
would  perch  on  the  edge  of  my  most  capacious  of 
fice  chair  with  his  great  paws  spread  upon  his 
knees,  as  though  poised  for  flight,  and  beam  at  me 
interminably  while  I  squirmed  under  his  benevo 
lent  scrutiny  and  strove  to  lure  him  into  speech. 
It  was  on  one  of  these  distressing  occasions  that  I 
endeavored  to  relieve  the  tension  of  silence  by  in 
quiring,  casually,  if  he  had  ever  thought  of  mak 
ing  a  will. 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  forget  the  expression 
of  his  face  as  the  question  fell  from  my  foolish 
lips.  Had  he  been  suddenly  informed  that  his 
hour  had  come  and  that  he  was  practically  a  dead 
man  the  effect  could  scarcely  have  been  more  start 
ling.  All  the  color  rapidly  faded  from  his  great 
round  cheeks,  his  little  pig  eyes  became  glassy  with 
fright,  their  lids  quivered  nervously,  every  trace 
of  his  habitual  humor  and  jollity  vanished,  and 
the  big,  red  hands,  clutching  his  knees,  visibly 
trembled.  The  whole  bulk  of  the  man  sagged. 

I  gazed  at  him  in  absolute  amazement,  but  he 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Is — is  it  me  heart,  do  you  think,  Sor?"  he 
whispered  awesomely. 

For  a  moment  I  was  tempted  to  laugh  in  his 

[91] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

face,  but  his  tone  was  so  desperately  serious  that  I 
resisted  the  inclination,  and  endeavored  to  put  a 
note  of  sympathy  into  my  voice. 

"Is  what  your  heart,  Mike4?"  I  inquired  gently. 

Clancey  swallowed  once  or  twice  with  evident 
difficulty. 

"Me — me  disease,  Sor,"  he  answered  hoarsely. 

"Your  disease?"  I  responded.  "Who  in  the 
world  says  there's  anything  the  matter  with  you*?" 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  raised  a 
deprecating  hand. 

"Shure,  I've  feared  it  for  many  a  day,  Sor,  and 
'tis  yure  sharp  eyes  that  has  seen  how  it  is." 

"Nonsense !"  I  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  ask  you  if 
you'd  made  a  will  because  I  think  you're  a  sick 
man,  but  merely  because  you're  an  old  client  in 
whom  I'm  interested.  Making  a  will  is  an  ordin 
ary  act  of  prudence  and,  like  taking  out  life  insur 
ance,  it  ought  to  be  done  while  one  is  well  and 
hearty.  My  safe  is  full  of  wills  made  by  people 
who  are  perfectly  well.  I  never  saw  you  looking 
better  and  I  hope  I'll  live  as  long  as  you  will." 

The  only  answer  which  Clancey  vouchsafed  to 
this  breezy  reassurance  was  another  doleful  shake 
of  the  head,  but  I  could  think  of  nothing  more  to 
say  and  we  relapsed  into  silence.  Finally  he  pro 
duced  a  pocket  handkerchief,  and  moppingi«his  per- 

[92] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

spiring  forehead,  hitched  his  chair  an  inch  or  two 
nearer  mine. 

"Should  I  be  afther  making  it  to-day,  Sor,  do 
you  think?"  he  whispered  nervously. 

"Why,  no,"  I  answered  lightly.  "Any  time 
will  do, — next  week  or  next  month  or  whenever 
you  happen  in  at  the  office  again.  Of  course 
there's  no  hurry." 

"God's  will  be  done!"  ejaculated  Clancey. 
"I'll  do  it  to-morrow,  Sor,  or -" 

"No,  no,  Mike,"  I  interrupted  to  ward  off  an 
other  visitation.  "Don't  bother  about  the  matter 
at  all  now.  Sometime  or  another,  if  you  agree 
with  me  in  thinking  it's  a  wise  thing  to  do,  drop 
me  a  line  and  we'll  take  it  up  at  our  leisure.  In 
the  meanwhile  talk  it  over  with  your  wife 
and " 

Clancey  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  shaky  hand 
upon  my  sleeve. 

"Shure,  I'll  not  breathe  a  word  av  this  to  her, 
poor  soul,"  he  murmured. 

"Nonsense!"  I  protested  sharply.  "Mrs.  Clan 
cey  won't  think  that  making  a  will  is  going  to  kill 
you  and  if  you  can't  rid  yourself  of  that  ridiculous 
notion,  why  don't  make  it.  The  only  reason  I 
suggested  it  was  because " 

"  'Twas  very  kind  av  you,  Sor,  and  Til  not 

[93] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

forget  it.  But  I'll  bring  no  other  into  this 
trouble." 

I  tossed  a  blotter  impatiently  to  the  other  side 
of  my  desk  and  leaned  back  in  my  chair. 

"Mrs.  Clancey  is  a  highly  sensible  woman,"  I 
began,  but  Michael  once  more  checked  me  with  a 
trembling  gesture. 

"She  hasn't  the  stringth,  Sor,"  he  quavered  and 
brushed  away  a  tear. 

I  was  gradually  becoming  desperate,  for  the  day 
was  waning  fast  and  my  desk  was  piled  high  with 
work  demanding  attention. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  I  suggested  with 
fatuous  cheeriness.  "Come  down  to  see  me  some 
day  next  week  and  then " 

"I  rather  do  it  now,  Sor,"  he  interrupted  plead 
ingly. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  spare  the  time  just  at  pres 
ent,  Mike,"  I  responded.  "But  I'll  tell  you  what 
we  can  do,"  I  continued,  as  I  noted  his  expression 
of  disappointment.  "You  can  tell  me  how  you 
want  to  dispose  of  your  property  now  and  I'll 
make  notes  and  draw  up  the  paper  later." 

I  picked  up  a  pad  and  pencil  as  I  spoke  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  Clancey.  A  long  pause  fol 
lowed. 

"Well?"  I  queried  encouragingly. 

[94] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

Michael's  face  remained  a  woful  blank 

"Whatever  you  say'll  be  right,  Sor,"  he  whis 
pered  with  an  ominous  quaver. 

"O,  this  is  your  will — not  mine,"  I  laughed. 
"But  if  you  want  a  suggestion,' '  I  added,  "what 
do  you  think  about  leaving  everything  to  Mrs. 
Clancey  for  her  life  and  letting  it  be  equally  di 
vided  among  the  children  after  her  death*?" 

Clancey  passed  the  handkerchief,  which  he  had 
rolled  into  a  ball,  from  one  moist  fist  to  the  other 
and  pressed  it  against  his  mouth.  But  not  a  word 
escaped  his  mournful  lips. 

"Well?''  I  prompted  sharply. 

"  Tis  as  you  like,  Sor." 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  been  touched  by  this 
unusual  mark  of  confidence,  but  I  had  no  desire 
to  control  the  disposal  of  Clancey's  substance  and 
his  lack  of  interest  was  irritating.  However,  I 
was  anxious  to  conclude  the  interview,  and  hastily 
scribbling  a  few  notes,  I  rose,  telling  him  that  I 
would  put  them  into  the  form  of  a  will  and  mail 
it  to  him  within  a  few  days.  I  saw  that  he  wanted 
me  to  draw  the  document  then  and  there  and  let 
him  sign  it  on  the  spot,  but  I  pretended  not  to 
notice  this,  and  almost  leading  him  to  the  door  by 
his  clammy  hand,  I  shook  it  and  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief  at  his  departure.  Before  long  I  had  reason 

[95] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

to  wish  that  I  had  dedicated  the  rest  of  that  de 
pleted  afternoon  exclusively  to  Clancey. 

Two  days  later  I  prepared  the  draft  of  his  will 
and  mailed  it  to  him,  and  the  next  morning  found 
him  again  on  the  edge  of  an  office  chair. 

"Well,  is  everything  satisfactory?"  I  inquired, 
as  he  produced  his  crumpled  copy. 

"Yes,  Sor,"  he  answered,  "and  I've  signed  it." 

"Signed  it?"  I  repeated.  "You  were  a  little 
too  quick  about  that,  Michael.  Wills  have  to  be 
executed  with  a  good  deal  of  formality  and  this 
was  merely  the  rough  copy  from  which " 

I  paused  as  my  eye  caught  the  paper  he  handed 
me.  It  was  subscribed  in  a  shaking  hand. 

"Yours  very  truly^ 

"MiKE  CLANCEY." 

Poor  old  innocent!  I  could  see  by  his  face 
what  an  effort  that  performance  had  cost  him. 
He  undoubtedly  regarded  the  document  as  his 
death  warrant,  and  it  seemed  cruel  to  subject  him 
to  further  mental  agony.  But  there  was  no  al 
ternative,  so  I  gravely  explained  that  I  would 
have  the  paper  engrossed  and  advise  him  as  soon 
as  it  was  ready  for  his  signature.  Was  he  sure 
that  it  was  just  to  his  liking?  Entirely.  Had  he 
talked  it  over  with  his  wife?  No?  Well,  he 

[96] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

ought  to  do  so.    But  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  could  not,  I  would  say  no  more. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  the  engrosser  handed 
me  the  completed  copy — a  perfect  specimen  of  his 
art,  the  proper  names  in  beautiful  Old  English 
characters,  the  script  as  legible  as  the  finest  hand 
set  type,  and  the  whole  embellished  by  flowing 
purple  ribbons  secured  by  formidable  seals.  Be 
fore  I  had  time  to  advise  Clancey  of  the  arrival 
of  this  artistic  creation,  however,  the  man  him 
self  appeared  upon  the  scene.  I  observed  that 
he  was  impressed  by  the  dignity  of  the  paper,  but 
its  very  formality  seemed  to  redouble  his  fears 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  kind  to  let  him  sign  it 
at  once  and  get  the  whole  matter  off  his  mind. 
But  when  I  proposed  this,  he  assented  in  such 
dubious  fashion  that  I  knew  something  must  be 
wrong.  I,  therefore,  gave  him  the  necessary  open 
ing. 

'Tis  only  a  notion  of  Katie's,"  he  began, 
apologetically,  "but  ye  told  me  to  talk  it  out  with 
her,  an' " 

"I'm  glad  you  did,"  I  interrupted.  "What  did 
Mrs.  Clancey  say*?" 

"Well,  Sor,  she  do  be  afther  thinking  how  I 
ought  to  give  me  little  things  to  the  children  for 

[97] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

kapesakes.  Would  it  be  much  trouble  to  put  them 
in?" 

"Why  no,"  I  answered.  "I  don't  like  to  mar 
this  paper,  but  perhaps  I  could  insert  what  you 
want  without  entirely  spoiling  it.  Is  there 
much " 

"  Tis  only  bits  av  tokens,  Sor." 

"Well,  let's  see,"  I  suggested,  drawing  a  sheet 
of  paper  toward  me  and  picking  up  a  pencil. 

Clancey  jerked  his  chair  nearer  me,  glanced  ap 
prehensively  at  the  closed  door  and,  with  his  el 
bow  on  my  desk  shelf  and  his  hand  screening  his 
mouth,  leaned  confidentially  toward  me. 

"Me  poipe  for  Willie,"  he  whispered. 

"All  right,"  I  answered.  "Speak  up.  Nobody 
can  hear  you." 

I  had  never  detected  a  crafty  expression  in 
Clancey' s  face  before,  but  he  looked  not  only 
frightened,  but  sly,  as  he  again  glanced  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Me  watch  for  Julia,"  he  continued,  almost 
under  his  breath. 

I  noted  the  bequest. 

"Me  silk  suspenders  for  Jim." 

I  nodded. 

"Me  tobacco-box  for  Larry." 

I  wrote  again. 

[98] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

"Me  St.  Patrick's  sash  for  Dan." 

I  looked  up  inquiringly,  but  Clancey's  worried 
face  showed  he  was  struggling  to  remember  some 
thing  more. 

"Me  sleeve  buttons  for  Nora.  .  .  .  Me  match 
box  for  Bernard.  .  .  .  Me  boots — no,  me  Bible 
for  Sarah.  .  .  .  Me  aisy  chair  for  Dinnis 
and " 

"Hold  on,  Michael,"  I  interrupted.  "Are  there 
any  more  children?" 

"Why  yes,  Sor.  There  do  be  Terrince  and 
Bridget  and  little  Katie." 

I  turned  over  a  page. 

"This  paper  will  have  to  be  redrawn,"  I  re 
marked  as  I  noted  the  final  legacy.  "But  if  you're 
sure  you  won't  want  to  make  any  further  altera 
tions  you  can  call  and  sign  it  the  day  after  to 


morrow." 


He  was  sure,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  I  was 
once  more  closeted  with  him  while  he  perused  the 
amended  document  which  had  again  been  en 
grossed  in  ornamental  script.  To  my  inquiry  if 
everything  was  now  satisfactory,  he  gave  a  fu 
nereal  assent,  but  his  expression  belied  his  words. 

"You  think  it's  all  right,  don't  you,  Sor?"  he 
added,  pathetically. 

[99] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

"Certainly,"  I  replied.  "I  wouldn't  let  you 
sign  it  if  it  wasn't." 

"That's  what  I  told  Katie,  Sor,"  he  murmured. 
"But  wimin  don't  understand." 

I  began  to  repent  of  my  insistence  on  Mrs. 
Clancey's  participation  in  this  little  affair,  but 
the  least  I  could  do  under  the  circumstances  was 
to  ask  what  it  was  that  she  did  not  understand. 

"  'Tis  only  a  trifle,  Sor.  I  told  her  you'd  see 
that  'twould  be  all  right.  But  if  we  was  to  die 
childless  what  would  become  of  the  property  she 
don't  know." 

"Die  childless?'  I  repeated.  "Why,  man! 
That's  a  rather  remote  possibility  with  thirteen 
living  children,  isn't  it?" 

"'Tis  so,  Sor.  But  Katie  and  me'd  hate  to 
have  some  av  the  scuts  av  our  family  spindin'  our 
savings." 

"Well,  you  can  provide  against  that  if  you 
think  it's  worth  while,"  I  responded  wearily. 

Clancey  did  think  it  was  worth  while,  and  for 
an  hour  or  more  I  wrestled  with  the  absurd  con 
tingency  which  involved  a  Trust  for  brother 
Bicey's  "wild  lads,"  an  annuity  for  an  aged  sis 
ter,  a  Trust  within  a  Trust  for  another  relative, 
and  more  complicated  provisions  than  I  had  ever 
encountered  in  all  my  previous  experience.  By 
[100] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

this  time  the  document  had  expanded  from  three 
to  twelve  pages  and  I  determined  to  incur  no  fur 
ther  expense  on  engrossing.  It  was  well  I  did 
so,  for  the  end  was  not  yet.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Clancey 
developed  such  a  genius  for  evolving  possibilities 
presenting  nice  questions  of  law,  and  such  a  dis 
tressing  resourcefulness  in  making  suggestions, 
that  I  grew  to  hate  the  woman  and  cursed  the  day 
I  had  burdened  myself  with  this  task.  Finally, 
however,  her  ingenuity  was  exhausted  and  after 
announcing  firmly  that  I  could  not  undertake  to 
anticipate  the  end  of  the  world  and  would  not  re 
draft  the  instrument  under  any  circumstances,  the 
bulky  manuscript,  now  swollen  to  over  twenty 
pages,  was  consigned  to  the  engrosser  and  another 
day  and  hour  set  for  concluding  the  business. 

"You  can  bring  your  own  witnesses,  or  I'll  have 
some  of  my  clerks  act  for  you,"  I  informed 
Clancey,  as  I  noted  the  appointment. 

"Witnesses?"  he  repeated  blankly. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered  sharply.  "As  I  told 
you  before,  wills  have  to  be  executed  with  a  good 
deal  of  care  and  formality,  in  the  presence  of  dis 
interested  witnesses.  Some  people  like  to  have 
their  friends  act  in  that  capacity,  but  it's  not 
necessary.  There  are  men  right  here  in  the  office 
who  can  do  it." 

[101] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

"I  think  Katie' d  rather  have  our  friends," 
sighed  Clancey. 

I  had  no  desire  to  oppose  the  lady's  views  on 
this  point,  and  muttering  "As  you  please,"  I  dis 
missed  my  careworn  client,  devoutly  hoping  that 
he  would  outlive  his  wife  and  not  leave  me  to 
administer  his  estate  under  her  surveillance. 

I  had  not  opened  my  mail  on  the  morning  ap 
pointed  for  Clancey's  appearance  when  the  office 
boy  announced  that  a  Mrs.  O'Hara  was  in  the 
reception  room  waiting  to  see  me.  Not  know 
ing  any  one  of  that  name  I  finished  reading  my 
letters  and  did  not  think  of  her  again  until  I  was 
on  the  point  of  starting  for  court.  Then  I  hur 
ried  into  the  outer  office  and  discovered  a  stout, 
kindly-faced  old  Irish  woman,  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  who  told  me  in  a  voice  shaken  with 
emotion  that  she'd  called  to  witness  "poor  Mike 
Clancey's"  will. 

"Well,  you're  a  trifle  early,"  I  advised  her. 
"Mr.  Clancey  won't  be  here  till  twelve." 

"Then  I'll  wait  for  him,  poor  man,"  she  an 
nounced  lugubriously,  and  leaving  word  that  I 
would  return  by  noon,  I  hurried  off  to  court, 
where  I  was  soon  engaged  in  a  legal  skirmish 
which  put  Clancey  and  his  teary-eyed  witness  com 
pletely  out  of  my  mind.  In  fact  the  proceedings 

[102] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

detained  me  longer  than  I  expected  and  it  was 
half-past  twelve  when  I  again  reached  the  office. 
Clancey  had  not  arrived,  the  office  boy  informed 
me,  but  he'd  shown  some  of  the  witnesses  into  the 
library. 

"Some  of  the  witnesses?"  I  repeated.  "How 
many  people  has  he  sent?" 

"There's  about  a  dozen  there  now,"  the  boy  as 
serted. 

"A  dozen!" 

I  strode  past  the  grinning  urchin  and  opened 
the  library  door. 

There,  grouped  about  the  long  center  table,  sat 
more  than  a  dozen  men,  women  and  children, 
some  of  them  dressed  in  mourning  and  all  of  them 
evidently  prepared  for  a  heart-rending  scene.  In 
a  corner  two  little  girls  were  actually  weeping, 
and  Mrs.  O'Hara,  playing  with  a  black-edged 
handkerchief,  was  plainly  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  heavy 
with  the  odor  of  crepe  and  the  company  suggested 
a  highly  respectable  wake. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  I  demanded 
sharply.  "Who  sent  you  here?" 

"Mr.  Clancey  asked  me  to  witness  the  execu 
tion  av  his  will,"  volunteered  a  solemn  old  mute 
near  the  door.    "Is  he  not  here  yit?" 
[103] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

I  turned  and  fled  into  my  private  office,  but 
before  I  could  give  the  necessary  instructions  for 
clearing  the  library,  Mrs.  Clancey's  arrival  was 
announced,  and  deciding  that  it  would  be  better 
for  her  to  dismiss  the  mourners,  I  sent  for  her  at 
once.  By  this  time  I  was  in  no  amiable  mood  and 
prepared  to  accord  the  cause  of  all  my  trouble  a 
pretty  cool  reception.  But  the  appearance  of  the 
culprit  completely  disarmed  me.  Indeed,  a  more 
utterly  grief-stricken  figure  than  Mrs.  Clancey 
has  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  my  office,  and 
I  could  only  help  her  into  a  chair  and  beg  her  to 
control  herself  while  striving  to  phrase  some  sym 
pathetic  words.  Of  course  there  was  but  one  ex 
planation  of  her  prostration  and  I  was  deeply 
shocked,  remembering,  with  a  guilty  feeling,  my 
ridicule  of  poor  Clancey's  heart  trouble,  and  my 
annoyance  at  the  ghastly  company  assembled  in 
the  library.  Finally  I  laid  my  hand  kindly  on 
the  woman's  bowed  shoulder. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  began  quietly.  "Clan 
cey — has  gone?" 

"No,  Sor,  but  'tis  killin'  him  it  is !"  she  wailed. 
"Ah,  Sor,  won't  ye  let  him  off?" 

I  stared  at  the  old  lady,  who  clutched  my  arm 
and  gazed  imploringly  at  me  with  streaming  eyes. 

"Let  him  off  what?"  I  exclaimed. 
[104] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

"Makin'  his  will,  Sor.  Shure  he's  wearin'  him 
self  to  a  shadow  and  not  a  wink  of  sleep  has 
come  to  him  for  days.  'Tis  dyin'  av  it  he  is. 
Let  him  off,  Sor,  and  God'll  reward  ye !  See  I've 
brought  the  money,  Sor,  but  if  it's  more " 

"Money?"  I  interrupted.— "What  money?" 

"For  makin'  the  will,  Sor.  That's  what's 
kapin'  him  to  it,  Sor.  He  says  you'll  never  take 
it  unless  he  ixecutes  the  will,  and  he  never  give 
you  no  business  before  and  'tis  ashamed  he  is  not 
to  go  on  after  you  suggestin'  it.  But  it's  wastin' 
him,  Sor.  It  is  indeed!  Won't  you  please  to 
take  the  money " 

Mrs.  Clancey  laid  twenty-five  one-dollar  bills 
on  my  desk  and  clasped  her  hands  appealingly. 

I  gazed  at  her  in  silence  not  knowing  whether 
to  laugh  or  to  enter  a  dignified  protest.  But  it 
seemed  best  to  accept  the  situation  without  ex 
planation  or  delay. 

"Mrs.  Clancey,"  I  began,  "hurry  home  to  Mike 
and  tell  him  I'm  more  than  satisfied — that  I  don't 
want  him  to  execute  the  will — and  that  he  shall 
have  a  receipt  in  full  for  my  services  in  the  morn 
ing.  And,  Mrs.  Clancey,"  I  added,  "I'll  donate 
the  money  to  the  Church  if  you'll  take  the  wit 
nesses  with  you.  I  think  they're  growing  rest 
less." 

[105] 


OF  DISPOSING  MEMORY 

Clancey  died  about  ten  years  later  and  I'm 
firmly  convinced  that  Katie  thinks  I  shortened 
his  life.  But  I've  never  been  guilty  of  a  similar 
offense.  He  was  the  last  client  to  whom  I  ever 
suggested  the  wisdom  of  making  a  will. 


VIII 
SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

HAD  I  been  a  younger  man  when  Mrs. 
Drysdale  came  under  my  observation, 
the  "Medical  Record"  would  long  ago 
have  contained  my  report  of  her  case  and  my 
diagnosis  would  doubtless  have  been  authoritative 
and  convincing.  But,  either  because  I  am  grow 
ing  old  or  because  the  matter  is  somewhat  per 
sonal,  I  have  never  been  able  to  reduce  my  ex 
perience  with  that  woman  to  the  terms  of  scien 
tific  testimony.  I  have  made  the  attempt  more 
than  once;  but,  even  when  I  have  succeeded  in 
embalming  the  facts  in  the  dull,  formal  "history" 
which  alone  carries  conviction  to  a  pathologist, 
they  still  verge  on  the  incredible  to  a  degree  which 
challenges  conservative  belief.  Yet,  if  the  his 
tory  of  this  case  was  less  embarrassing  in  itself, 
the  diagnosis  would  find  me  wanting.  I  could 
easily  frame  one  which  would  satisfy  my  brother 
practitioners.  Most  doctors,  like  other  men,  will 
blindly  accept  a  familiar  formula  rather  than 

[107] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

think  for  themselves.  But  to  force  unprecedented 
facts  into  a  ready-made  theory  is,  in  my  opinion, 
beneath  the  dignity  of  any  investigator  worthy 
of  the  name.  I  am  convinced,  however,  that  no 
one  is  justified  in  suppressing  extraordinary  cir 
cumstances  merely  because  the  special  branch  of 
knowledge  which  should  supply  an  explanation 
fails  to  do  so.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  that  all 
such  happenings  should  be  given  the  widest  pos 
sible  publicity,  in  the  hope  that  they  may  find,  in 
the  world  at  large,  some  interpretation  beneficial 
to  humanity. 

With  the  assent  of  those  concerned  I  have  there 
fore  decided  to  submit  my  account  of  Mrs.  Drys- 
dale's  case,  with  no  pretense  of  authority,  save 
such  as  an  eyewitness  and  trained  observer  may 
reasonably  command. 

If  there  had  been  any  other  physician  available 
I  would  not  have  responded  to  the  night  sum 
mons  which  first  called  me  to  the  Drysdale  cot 
tage, — urgent  though  the  message  was.  For  some 
years  I  had  been  exclusively  engaged  with  my 
"Treatise  on  the  Nervous  System,"  and  was  not 
in  active  practice.  But  I  could  not  well  refuse  to 
act  in  an  emergency, — at  least,  until  the  family 
physician  should  arrive.  This  I  endeavored  to 
explain  to  the  person  at  the  Drysdale  end  of  the 

[108] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

telephone,  but  she  was  excited  to  the  point  of  in 
coherence  and  neither  my  explanations  nor 
my  questions  elicited  any  intelligent  response.  I 
therefore  started  for  the  house  without  the  slight 
est  idea  of  what  I  should  find  confronting  me. 

I  was  aware  that  the  Drysdales  were  my  neigh 
bors,  but  beyond  this  I  knew  nothing  whatever 
concerning  them;  for,  being  a  bachelor  and  ab 
sorbed  in  my  studies,  I  had  had  little  or  no  social 
intercourse  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  lonely 
countryside  to  which  I  had  retired  for  uninter 
rupted  work.  Young  Albert  Drysdale  and  I  had 
greeted  one  another  upon  our  occasional  meetings 
upon  the  main  road,  but  I  do  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  his  mother  before  I  was  summoned  to 
her  house.  Perhaps  I  may  have  heard  that  she 
was  a  widow,  and  that  the  young  man  was  her 
only  child,  but  I  did  not  recall  those  facts  as  I 
hurriedly  covered  the  half  mile  of  country  road 
which  lay  between  my  house  and  the  white  cot 
tage  I  knew  she  occupied. 

A  frightened  and  disheveled  servant  answered 
my  ring,  and,  after  peering  at  me  through  an  inch 
of  opened  door,  admitted  me  with  hysterical  evi 
dences  of  relief. 

"Praise  God,  you've  come,  doctor!"  she  panted, 
clutching  my  arm.     "Praise  God  and  his  saints! 
[109] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

Twenty  times  tonight  I've  telephoned  you  and 
never  got  an  answer  till  fifteen  minutes  since. 
Another  hour  and  I'd  have  been  mad  myself!" 

"Who's  the  other  lunatic?"  I  snapped,  drawing 
my  arm  away,  for  I  am  always  impatient  of  hys 
terical  volubility,  and  the  intimation  that  I  had 
been  dragged  out  of  bed  to  grapple  with  a  maniac 
roused  my  indignation. 

"Has  somebody  gone  crazy  here*?"  I  demanded, 
sharply,  for  the  woman  had  not  answered  my 
question  and  gave  indication  of  swooning. 

"It's  Mrs.  Drysdale,  doctor,"  she  whispered. 
"She's  upstairs.  Mr.  Albert's  away  on  a  shooting 
trip  in  Canada.  The  cook  left  yesterday,  and 
there's  nobody  else  in  the  house.  It's  something 
terrible." 

"Is  she  violent?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir.  That's  the  terrible  thing.  She  don't 
move — only  looks — and — and  looks!" 

"Looks  at  what?"  I  demanded,  roughly. 

"Looks  clean  through  you,  doctor!" 

The  woman's  voice  sank  again  to  a  horrified 
whisper  and  she  crept  shudderingly  toward  me, 
glancing  nervously  over  her  shoulder  at  the  stairs 
as  she  spoke.  She  seemed  dvercome  by  terror. 

"Well,  looks  can't  hurt  you,"  I  asserted,  un- 
[no] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

sympathetically,  shaking  off  the  trembling  hand 
she  had  laid  upon  my  arm. 

"Can't  they,  doctor?"  she  questioned,  eagerly: 
"Mrs.  Drysdale's  chilled  me  to  the  bone.  I  felt 
my  heart  go  like  this," — she  closed  her  hand  with 
a  convulsive  movement  of  the  fingers.  "How 
about  the  'Evil  Eye,'  sir*?"  she  inquired. 

"Evil  fiddlesticks!"  I  muttered  gruffly.  "Where 
is  Mrs.  Drysdale's  room*?" 

"At  the  head  of  the  stairs,  doctor." 

The  woman  pointed  behind  her  without  taking 
her  eyes  from  me,  and  shuddered  as  she  answered. 

"Then  go  and  rout  out  some  breakfast,"  I  or 
dered.  "It'll  be  daylight  shortly,  and  there's 
nothing  like  food  for  curing  fright.  Is  there  a  bell 
in  Mrs.  Drysdale's  room?" 

"Yes,  sir, — alongside  the  door." 

"Then,  listen !"  I  commanded,  sternly.  "If  I 
ring  once,  run  to  the  nearest  farm  and  bring  some 
of  the  men  folks  here  to  help  me.  If  I  ring  twice, 
fetch  me  some  breakfast.  Otherwise,  leave  me 
alone.  Do  you  understand?" 

She  nodded  assent  and  started  toward  the  rear 
door. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  I  continued.  "Before  you 
do  anything  else,  telephone  for  Mrs.  Drysdale's 
family  physician  and " 

Cm] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

"She  hasn't  any,  as  I  know  of,  doctor,"  she 
interrupted.  "I've  heard  her  say  she  was  never 
sick  a  day  in  her  life." 

"Then  notify  the  nearest  physician.  I  don't 
care  who  he  is." 

I  started  up  the  dark  stairway,  as  I  spoke,  and 
the  woman  watched  me  until  I  reached  the  top 
and  knocked  on  the  door,  when  she  turned  and 
fled  with  a  gasp  of  terror. 

No  response  came  to  my  summons,  and,  after 
listening  for  a  moment  at  the  keyhole,  I  shifted 
my  revolver  from  my  hip  to  my  side  pocket,  and, 
turning  the  handle  of  the  door,  entered  Mrs.  Drys- 
dale's  room.  A  small  lamp  stood  on  the  table  in 
the  center  of  the  apartment  but  in  the  dim  light 
I  could  not  at  once  distinguish  the  surrounding 
objects.  Suddenly,  however,  I  discerned  a  woman 
standing  perfectly  motionless  behind  the  table, 
her  head  thrust  forward,  her  shoulders  slightly 
bent,  one  hand  resting  on  her  hip,  and  the  other 
clinched  tightly  at  her  side.  Then,  as  my  eyes 
became  accustomed  to  the  light,  I  saw  a  face 
which  was  not  only  singularly  beautiful,  but  also 
startling  in  its  forceful  expression. 

One  glance  at  the  rigid  figure  and  staring  eyes 
was  sufficient  to  assure  me  that  I  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  harmless  cataleptic.  But,  familiar 

[112] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

as  I  was  with  such  cases,  I  could  understand  the 
wild  terror  of  the  woman-servant;  for,  unearthly 
as  this  phenomenon  always  is,  there  was  some 
thing  about  Mrs.  Drysdale  which  made  it  par 
ticularly  uncanny,  and  I  shivered  in  spite  of  my 
intense  professional  interest  in  the  spectacle. 

For  fully  half  a  minute  I  remained  standing 
in  the  doorway,  wondering  what  could  have  in 
duced  the  woman's  catalepsy.  The  servant  had 
said  that  her  mistress  had  never  been  ill,  there 
fore  it  was  improbable  that  her  condition  was 
the  indication  or  accompaniment  of  physical  dis 
order.  Moreover,  there  was  nothing  in  the  room 
which  would  be  likely  to  affect  any  one  especially 
sensitive  to  hypnotic  influence.  Mrs.  Drysdale, 
it  is  true,  stood  facing  the  lamp,  and,  if  its  flames 
had  been  particularly  bright  and  steady,  there* 
would  have  been  strong  reason  for  suspecting  its 
agency,  but  the  light  was  shaded  and  its  soft 
glow  could  have  no  influence  on  the  subject  one 
way  or  another.  Plainly,  then,  the  catalepsy  was 
self-induced — the  direct  result  of  an  auto-sugges 
tion, — the  secret  of  which  is  possessed  by  many 
people,  notably  the  fakirs  of  India  and  other 
countries  in  the  East.  One  thing  alone  militated 
against  this  conclusion.  The  normal  expression  of 
a  cataleptic  is  tranquillity  itself,  indicating  com- 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

plete  rest  of  the  physical  functions  despite  the 
usual  muscular  rigidity.  But  Mrs.  Drysdale's 
face  revealed  a  desperate  mental  anxiety,  and  the 
attitude  of  her  body  indicated  intense  nervous 
strain. 

In  order  to  observe  this  peculiar  phase  to  better 
advantage  I  closed  the  door,  moved  across  the 
room,  and  was  about  to  lay  my  medicine  case  on 
a  chair  when  the  sound  of  a  voice  startled  me  into 
dropping  it  on  the  floor. 

"Please  don't  step  on  his  body,  doctor." 
Involuntarily  I  glanced  at  the  floor,  and,  at  the 
same  instant,  realized  that  this  was  the  first  time 
I  had  ever  heard  a  hypnotic  speak,  except  in  an 
swer  to  a  suggestion.  Had  I  uttered  a  word  of 
any  kind  it  would  have  been  simple  to  adduce 
some  explanation,  for  even  a  meaningless  noise 
has  been  known  to  awake  response  from  a  subject 
endeavoring  to  interpret.  But  I  had  not  even 
thought  of  anything  remotely  connected  with  "a 
body  on  the  floor,"  and  the  pattern  of  the  carpet 
was  too  vague  to  suggest  anything  of  the  sort.  Of 
course  I  was  aware  that  cataleptics  are  keenly 
conscious  of  their  immediate  surroundings,  and 
my  medical  satchel  might  have  suggested  the  title, 
"doctor."  The  inexplicable  fact  was  that  she 
should  have  spoken  at  all.  Thinking  that  possi- 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

bly  I  had  dropped  the  bag  before  she  spoke,  and 
that  her  meaningless  remark  might  have  been  an 
effort  to  reply  to  the  sound  of  something  falling 
on  the  floor,  I  picked  up  the  case,  laid  it  on  a 
chair,  and  followed  up  the  action  with  a  ques 
tion. 

"Now,  where  is  the  body,  Mrs.  Drysdalel"  I 
asked. 

"Here  at  my  feet,"  was  the  startling  answer. 

Instinctively  my  eyes  once  more  sought  the 
floor,  and  I  experienced  an  uncomfortably  shiv 
ery  sensation  as  I  studied  the  gray-green  carpet. 
Then  I  smiled  at  my  susceptibility  and  began 
wondering  how  long  the  woman  had  been  in  the 
condition  in  which  I  found  her.  If  the  spell  were 
allowed  to  continue  indefinitely,  the  result  might 
be  injurious,  but  my  professional  curiosity  was  too 
fully  aroused  to  admit  of  interference,  and  I  in 
stantly  made  trial  of  a  direct  suggestion. 

"You  are  stooping,  Mrs.  Drysdale,"  I  an 
nounced  aloud.  "Draw  yourself  up  to  your  full 
height." 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly  "I  dare  not." 

To  say  that  I  was  amazed  at  the  answer  but 
mildly  expresses  my  feeling.  She  had  not  only  re 
fused  to  follow  my  positive  suggestion, — but  she 
had  also  resisted  it  with  an  equally  positive,  if  in- 

[115] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

scrutable,  reason, — a  result  absolutely  foreign  to 
my  not  inconsiderable  experience.  She  was  cer 
tainly  an  abnormal  subject,  and  I  instinctively 
prayed  that  the  local  physician  would  not  arrive 
until  I  had  had  sufficient  opportunity  to  observe 
and  record  all  the  peculiar  manifestations  of  the 
case.  While  carefully  noting  all  the  foregoing 
details  in  my  memorandum  book  I  determined 
to  attempt  to  control  my  patient  by  the  usual 
hypnotic  processes,  and  resolved,  if  these  should 
fail,  to  test  some  unproved  theories  suggested  in 
my  new  treatise. 

I  therefore  moved  the  lamp  into  a  favorable 
position,  and,  pushing  back  the  table,  seated  my 
self  on  the  edge  so  that  my  eyes  would  be  on  an 
exact  level  with  my  subject's.  Then  I  concen 
trated  my  gaze  on  her  staring  and  apparently  un 
seeing  eyes. 

I  do  not  claim  to  be  a  hypnotist,  as  the  word  is 
generally  understood,  but  all  persons  possess  the 
faculty  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  and  almost  all 
modern  physicians  practise  it,  consciously  or  un 
consciously.  I  had  frequently  tested  myself  in 
this  regard,  but  I  had  never  exerted  my  full 
powers  on  any  one  and  was  not  a  little  anxious  to 
see  what  I  could  do  with  this  particular  subject. 

To  my  intense  surprise,  however,  I  no  sooner 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

met  Mrs.  Drysdale's  gaze  than  I  experienced  a 
complete  loss  of  command  which  was  almost  in 
stantly  followed  by  a  sinking  feeling  impossible  to 
describe.  For  a  few  seconds  I  fought  against  this 
weakness,  but  its  influence  was  overpowering,  and 
I  yielded  with  a  grateful  relief  such  as  usually 
accompanies  the  cessation  of  intense  physical 
pain.  This,  in  turn,  was  followed  by  a  feeling 
of  serene  content  and  blissful  composure.  But 
these  sensations  were  scarcely  >recorlded  Before 
my  eyes  encountered  a  scene  which  instantly  put 
an  end  to  all  further  self-consciousness  and  made 
me  strain  every  nerve  in  the  effort  of  comprehen 
sion. 

I  found  myself  gazing  into  a  bare  and  dilapi 
dated  room,  which,  even  in  its  ruin  and  decay, 
suggested  the  living  room  of  some  deserted  back 
woods  cabin.  The  wide  entrance  door  had  rotted 
from  its  hinges  and  had  fallen  inside,  and  in  the 
dim  moonlight  I  could  distinguish  grasses  grow 
ing  close  to  the  threshold,  and,  beyond  them,  dark 
fir  trees  moving  with  the  wind.  The  glass  of  the 
window  panes  was  broken  and  had  been  patched 
with  newspapers,  bits  of  which  were  still  sticking 
to  the  casings.  The  flooring  was  stained  and  rot 
ting,  and  the  ceiling  warped  and  sagging.  No 
sign  of  furniture  was  anywhere  apparent,  but, 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

stored  in  the  corner,  I  saw  several  barrels,  bags, 
and  boxes,  before  which  stood  a  rude  sort  of  fence 
or  gate.  Close  beside  this,  on  the  rough-boarded 
and  decaying  floor,  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  face 
downward.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  dead,  but 
almost  at  the  moment  my  eyes  fell  upon  him  he 
turned  upon  his  side  and  I  saw  that  he  was  sleep 
ing.  The  next  movement  he  made  revealed  his 
face,  and  it  was  without  shock  or  even  surprise, 
that  I  recognized  young  Albert  Drysdale.  He 
wore  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  brown  canvas  trousers, 
army  gaiters,  and  a  coat  of  yellowish  leather, 
showing  an  edge  of  red  flannel  lining.  Under  his 
head  lay  a  cloth  cap,  and  against  the  wall,  in  a 
corner,  rested  his  rifle  and  hunting  knife.  But 
my  eyes  had  no  sooner  noted  these  details  than 
they  again  sought  the  door  as  if  drawn  there  by 
some  compelling  force.  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
I  was  made  aware  of  the  presence  of  two  other 
men  beside  the  sleeper.  These  men  were  roughly 
dressed,  and  their  faces  bespoke  half-breed  In 
dians  of  the  lowest  and  most  vicious  type.  They 
advanced  stealthily  upon  young  Drysdale,  crawl 
ing  toward  him  on  their  hands  and  knees,  and 
proceeded  to  rifle  his  pockets  with  dexterous  cun 
ning  and  rapidity.  This  done,  one  of  them  drew 
a  hunting  knife  and  aimed  it  at  the  sleeper's 

[us] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

heart,  but  his  companion  seized  his  arm,  and, 
threatening  him  with  fierce  gestures,  dragged  him 
from  the  room  and  out  into  the  screen  of  trees. 
For  some  minutes  I  watched  the  heavy  breathing 
of  the  sleeper  with  undiminished  apprehension, 
and  then,  suddenly,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  path 
of  moonlight  on  the  floor,  and  to  my  horror  I  de 
tected  the  murderous  half-breed  again  stealing 
through  the  doorway  toward  his  victim.  But,  on 
entering,  the  fellow  rose  to  his  full  height  and 
crossed  the  room,  his  moccasined  feet  making  no 
sound.  He  stopped  at  what  I  had  taken  to  be  a 
gate  guarding  the  assortment  of  bags  and  barrels 
in  the  corner,  and  examined  it  closely,  touching  it 
with  his  hand.  Then,  as  he  worked  at  it,  I  recog 
nized  the  contrivance  as  a  deadfall,  or  trap  for 
bears,  so  arranged  that  an  immense  beam  would  be 
dislodged  by  the  slightest  touch  of  the  slender 
posts  which  supported  it,  and  the  victim  crushed 
beneath  its  weight. 

His  investigations  ended,  the  half-breed  knelt 
beside  young  Drysdale  and  listened  to  his  breath 
ing.  Then  he  drew  him  gently  along  the  floor  un 
til  he  had  placed  him,  still  sleeping,  within  the 
murderous  trap,  in  such  a  position  that  his  slight 
est  movement  would  release  the  fatal  beam.  I 
saw  the  expression  of  hatred  and  revengeful 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

triumph  on  the  murderer's  face,  but  how  he  left 
the  cabin  I  cannot  say,  for  the  instant  I  compre 
hended  his  design  my  whole  thought  concentrated 
upon  one  object, — to  keep  young  Drysdale  in 
exactly  the  position  he  then  occupied.  If  he 
should  roll  an  inch  to  the  right  or  to  the  left, 
the  trap  would  be  sprung  and  his  death  would  be 
inevitable.  He  must  remain  absolutely  rigid.  I 
instinctively  willed  this,  but  I  also  felt  some 
strong  support  behind  my  effort  which  inspired  me 
with  indomitable  confidence  that  nothing  could 
withstand  my  power.  Then,  as  I  held  the  sleeper 
in  the  rigidity  of  death,  it  was  borne  in  upon  me 
that  I  must  wake  him  without  releasing  his  mus 
cles, — and  I  did  it.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
stared  up  at  the  beam  overhanging  him,  noted  the 
construction  of  the  trap,  but  made  no  movement 
of  any  kind.  Then,  once  more,  I  was  conscious  of 
a  compelling  influence  upon  me,  and  I  willed  that 
the  man  should  worm  himself  along  the  floor  upon 
a  certain  line  designated  in  my  mind.  It  was  a 
feat  requiring  great  muscular  effort,  and  the  devia 
tion  of  an  inch  would  mean  death.  But  it  was 
possible  and,  if  accomplished,  it  would  enable 
Drysdale  to  escape  from  the  trap  without  spring 
ing  it.  Never  before  or  since  have  I  experienced 
anything  like  the  mental  tension  and  physical 

[120] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

strain  of  those  interminable  moments  as  he 
moved,  hairbreadth  by  hairbreadth,  until  there 
was  only  a  yard  between  him  and  safety.  Then, 
suddenly,  something  in  my  head  seemed  to  burst, 
and,  at  the  same  instant,  Drysdale's  sleeve 
brushed  one  of  the  supporting  posts,  and  the  beam 
drove  straight  for  his  head,  suddenly  swerved, 
as  if  it  had  met  some  slight  but  deflecting  ob 
struction,  and  crashed  through  the  rotting  floor 
with  an  upward  flight  of  splinters. 

With  the  thud  of  the  deadfall  the  scene  in 
stantly  disappeared  and  I  found  myself  leaning 
against  the  edge  of  the  center  table,  gazing  down 
at  Mrs.  Drysdale,  who  was  lying  at  my  feet. 

I  have  had  many  conversations  with  Mrs. 
Drysdale  since  that  night,  but,  though  her  story 
corroborates  my  experience  in  almost  every  par 
ticular,  I  have  received  but  little  real  enlighten 
ment  from  her  testimony.  She  recalls  being  domi 
nated  by  a  strong  premonition  of  her  son's  im 
pending  danger,  which  excluded  all  other  thought 
and  gradually  took  shape  in  the  scene  we  both 
witnessed.  She  likewise  remembers  calling  some 
one  to  her  aid  at  the  moment  of  extreme  peril. 
She  further  asserts  that  her  summons  was  an 
swered  by  a  strong  sustaining  force  which  lent 

[121] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

confidence  and  power  to  her  mental  effort.  But 
she  has  no  memory  of  having  influenced  me  in 
any  way,  nor  has  she  any  recollection  of  ever  hav 
ing  seen  me  previous  to  the  moment  she  recovered 
consciousness. 

What  I  have  learned  from  young  Drysdale  also 
affords  valuable  corroboration  of  the  essential 
facts,  but  it  does  not  explain  them.  He  reports  a 
quarrel  with  one  of  his  half-breed  guides  in  the 
course  of  which  a  blow  was  struck,  and  relates 
that  the  men  abandoned  him  in  the  wilds  of 
Canada.  His  subsequent  wanderings  led  him  at 
night  to  a  deserted  cabin,  used  by  some  woods 
men  for  storing  provisions.  By  accident,  he  slept 
under  a  deadfall  set  in  the  ground  floor  of  the 
cabin  to  protect  the  stores  from  bears.  He  re 
gards  his  escape  as  miraculous,  but  can  find  little 
to  support  his  mother's  and  my  version  of  the 
affair,  except  the  loss  of  his  money,  which  he  at 
tributes  to  carelessness. 

Thus,  all  the  important  questions  remain  open 
for  scientific  investigation  and  answer. 

Assuming  that  the  boy's  mother  hypnotized  me, 
was  the  mental  picture  transferred  from  her  brain 
to  mine*?  And,  if  so,  did  she  exert  her,  power 
upon  me  to  exert  mine  on  her  son?  Or  did  I  do 
this  independently?  Again.  Was  Albert's  safety 
[122] 


SUBMITTED  ON  THE  FACTS 

insured  only  by  our  cooperation,  or  would  her 
power  alone  have  sufficed? 

She  can  answer  none  of  these  queries.  But,  of 
course,  her  firm  conviction  that  she  could  not  have 
saved  the  boy  unaided  is  entitled  to  no  weight 
whatsoever  from  a  scientific  point  of  view. 

There  remains  to  report  only  the  opinion  of  the 
local  surgeon,  who  subsequently  attended  her. 
He  testifies  that  the  bruise  which  he  found  on  her 
shoulder  could  not  possibly  have  been  caused  by 
her  fall  when  she  collapsed  on  the  carpeted  floor 
of  her  room,  A  conclusion  in  which  I  concur. 


IX 
THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

THE  senior  partner  of  Ballister  &  Beck 
was  prejudiced  against  Creighton  from 
the  start.  The  proposed  salesman  not 
only  wore  gloves  and  a  stylish  scarf,  but  his  trou 
sers  were  carefully  creased  down  the  middle. 
There  were  other  reasons  for  Mr.  Ballister's  un 
favorable  impressions,  but  they  were  covered  by 
the  general  accusation  that  the  applicant  dressed 
too  well.  The  junior  partner  did  not  attempt  to 
combat  his  associate's  prejudice,  but  there  was  a 
position  open,  and  his  friend  Creighton  wanted 
work  and  wanted  it  badly. 

"Suppose  you  continue  to  handle  the  sellers 
without  gloves  and  let  Creighton  wait  on  the 
buyers  with  them,"  he  suggested,  smilingly. 

"But  the  man's  had  no  experience,"  his  asso 
ciate  objected. 

Mr.  Beck  admitted  this. 

"But  he  used  to  play  a  mighty  good  game  of 
poker,"  he  added,  reflectively. 
[124] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"A  gambler,  eh?'  sniffed  Mr.  Ballister.  "I 
thought  as  much.  A  drinker,  too,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  at  all.  He  neither  drinks  nor  smokes, 
and  the  very  sight  of  a  tobacco-chewer  makes  him 
sick.  No — he's  a  clean  fellow  all  the  way  through 
and  I  think  we  ought  to  give  him  a  chance." 

The  junior  partner  wisely  refrained  from  push 
ing  his  protege's  claims  further  for  the  time  being, 
and  about  a  week  later  Mr.  Ballister  consented 
that  Creighton  be  taken  on  trial. 

The  clerical  force  of  Ballister  &  Beck  took  its 
cue  from  the  head  of  the  house  in  the  matter  of 
personal  attire,  and  the  newcomer  looked  like  a 
fashion-plate  among  his  fellow  clerks.  Even  Mr. 
Beck,  the  best-dressed  man  in  the  house,  felt 
shabby  and  untidy  beside  his  immaculate  subor 
dinate.  Not  only  were  his  clothes  superior  in  cut, 
workmanship,  and  material,  but  Creighton's  way 
of  wearing  them  was  distinguished,  and  he  al 
ways  looked  as  clean  and  comfortable  as  though 
he  had  just  emerged  from  his  bath  and  the  hands 
of  a  valet. 

Mr.  Beck,  covertly  studying  the  man  in  his  new 
surroundings,  silently  confessed  that  his  partner 
was  probably  right,  and  that  Creighton  was  too 
nice,  too  delicate — too  fastidious  for  practical 
purposes.  He  spoke  almost  timidly  of  him  to 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

Mr.  Ballister  on  the  morning  of  his  arrival,  sug 
gesting  that  he  be  assigned  to  some  easy  duty  until 
he  had  learned  the  ropes. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  growled  the  old  gentleman. 
"Give  him  the  hardest  thing  we  have.  If  he's  no 
good  he'll  quit  right  away  and  we  won't  have 
wasted  time  in  teaching  him.  If  he's  worth  any 
thing  he'll  stick  it  out  and  the  rest' 11  come  easy. 
Start  him  on  Coulson." 

"Coulson!"  exclaimed  the  junior.  "We  might 
as  well  discharge  him  at  once.  We  never  had  a 
salesman  whom  Coulson  couldn't  shave  to  the 
bleeding-point.  He'd  simply  eat  up  a  tenderfoot 
like  Creighton,  and  take  a  good  big  bite  out  of 
us  in  the  bargain/5 

"Not  if  you  limit  the  price.  Let  your  man 
tackle  the  job,  anyway.  If  he's  going  to  tuck  his 
tail  between  his  legs,  the  sooner  we  know  it  the 
better.  Besides,  we  ought  to  have  offered  Coul 
son  long  ago." 

"Very  well,  sir.  I  suppose  our  low  figure  for 
him  is  seventy-eight,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so.  We  ought  to  get  eighty  this 
year,  and  we'd  do  it  too  if  we  had  a  decent  sales 
man  in  the  place.  There  isn't  much  stuff  on  the 
market." 

The  junior  partner  decided  to  say  as  little  as 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

possible  to  Creighton  about  his  coming  experience. 
There  was  no  use  in  frightening  the  novice  before 
he  began.  Therefore  he  merely  advised  him  that 
Coulson  was  the  most  important  out-of-town 
buyer  of  Kopec  gums  in  the  market — that  the  low 
price  to  him  was  seventy-eight,  and  that  he  was — 
well,  he  was  a  trifle  close  at  times — close  and — er 
—difficult.  Mr.  Beck  further  explained  the  gen 
eral  condition  of  the  Kopec  market,  emphasizing 
all  the  bull  points,  until  the  new  salesman  began 
to  wonder  why  his  firm  wanted  to  sell  at  all 
with  such  a  certainty  of  higher  prices  later  in  the 
year.  The  reasons  for  the  expected  rise,  however, 
became  somewhat  jumbled  in  Creighton's  mind, 
and  before  he  arrived  at  his  destination  the  only 
things  he  was  sure  of  were  that  the  lo»w  price  was 
seventy-eight  and  that  he  was  commissioned  to  sell 
merchandise — a  somewhat  prosaic  employment, 
but  still  not  without  an  element  of  sporting  in 
terest. 

The  exterior  of  the  building  occupied  by  Coul 
son  &  Son  was  unpretentious,  and  the  interior  was 
dingy  and  uninviting.  A  number  of  seedy-looking 
clerks  were  huddled  together  in  a  bare  and  dirty 
pen  formed  of  cheap  wood  partitions  painted  a 
sickly  kitchen  yellow.  Everything  about  the  place 
disgusted  the  fastidious  Creighton  to  the  core,  and 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

he  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  was  in  the  right 
office.  But  being  reassured  on  this  point  by  an 
ansemic  office-boy  sitting  near  the  door,  he  in 
quired  for  Mr.  Coulson  and  laid  a  visiting-card 
upon  the  youngster's  desk.  The  boy  looked  at  it 
indifferently  for  a  moment,  dropped  it  into  the 
spittoon  beside  him,  and  jerked  his  thumb  toward 
a  door  in  the  rear  partition  without  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  soiled  novel  he  was  perusing. 
Creighton  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  shake  some 
manners  into  the  absorbed  reader,  but  restrained 
himself  and  knocked  at  the  indicated  door.  Re 
ceiving  no  answer,  he  at  last  pushed  it  open  and 
found  himself  in  the  private  office  of  the  firm. 

At  a  hacked  and  ink-stained  deal  table  sat  a 
corpulent,  coarse-featured  individual  of  about 
sixty,  with  a  close-cropped,  grizzled  beard  and 
mustache,  and  a  large  wen  on  the  side  of  his  big 
nose.  His  costume  consisted  of  baggy  blue  trous 
ers,  white  socks,  low  shoes,  and  a  linen  shirt  with 
out  collar  or  cuffs.  He  wore  neither  coat  nor 
waistcoat,  and  his  spotted  and  dirty  starched  shirt 
bulged  up  alarmingly  from  his  ponderous  waist 
band  with  its  overhanging  roll  of  fat.  At  a  desk 
in  the  corner  of  the  disordered  room  sat  the 
younger  Coulson,  the  prototype  of  the  head  of  the 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

house  in  feature  and  form,  and  obviously  an  imi 
tator  in  the  matter  of  undress. 

The  elder  Coulson  regarded  the  visitor  with 
silent  curiosity  as  he  stated  his  errand,  studying 
him  from  his  patent-leather  shoes  to  his  carefully 
brushed  hair,  as  though  he  were  some  freak  of 
nature.  Then  he  exchanged  a  wondering  glance 
with  his  son,  and  resumed  his  inspection  from  the 
head  downward,  pausing  fascinated  by  Creigh- 
ton's  spotless  gloves.  At  last  he  wiped  away  a 
smile  with  a  slow  movement  of  a  big,  puffy  hand, 
rose  heavily  from  his  chair,  and  without  taking  his 
eyes  from  the  salesman  climbed  to  a  high  stool 
and  perched  there  like  a  bloated  bullfrog  squat 
ting  on  a  fence-post.  The  son  shoved  his  chair 
back,  and  crossing  his  ponderous  legs,  also  gazed 
silently  at  Creighton,  who,  having  explained  his 
business,  was  at  a  loss  for  further  conversation. 
At  last  the  elder  man  turned  his  back  on  the  sales 
man,  peered  thoughtfully  at  the  high  rear  win 
dows,  through  which  the  shipping  of  the  harbor 
was  plainly  visible,  and  broke  the  silence. 

"I  guess  we  ain't  in  the  market  for  Kopec  this 
year,"  he  began,  lugubriously.  "I  reckon  there 
ain't  no  money  in  'em  any  more.  But  sit  down, 
young  fellow" — he  waved  his  hand  toward  a  kit 
chen  chair,  which  Creighton  accepted. 

[129] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"No,  sir,"  he  continued,  sadly.  "We  had  to 
pay  sixty-nine  or  seventy  for  the  last  lot — didn't 
we,  Tom?" 

"Sixty-nine  and  a  half,"  prompted  the  son  from 
his  corner. 

"So  we  done  some  study  in'  to  wrastle  along 
without  'em,"  continued  Coulson  senior,  "and  we 
got  things  pretty  nigh  fixed." 

"As  good  as  fixed,"  chorused  Tom. 

"In  that  case,"  interposed  Creighton,  rising  as 
he  spoke,  "there's  no  use  in  wasting  your  time." 

He  was  beginning  to  resent  the  bearing  of  these 
vulgar  creatures,  and  wanted  to  have  done  with 
them  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

Coulson  and  his  son  exchanged  another  mean 
ing  glance,  but  the  old  man's  gaze  again  centred 
on  the  moving  panorama  of  the  harbor  as  he 
drawled : 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry — young  feller.     It  ain't, 
sociable.    Kopec  don't  keep  you  so  all-fired  busy, 
I  expect." 

"It  does  this  year,"  observed  Creighton,  truth 
fully. 

"That  so?    What's  new  in  it?" 

Creighton  was  inclined  to  say  that  he  was,  but 
'•efrained. 

"I  expect  your  process  for  getting  along  with- 
[130] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

out  it  is  the  newest  thing,  Mr.  Coulson,"  he  an 
swered,  quietly. 

The  old  man  half  turned  on  his  high  perch  to 
gaze  at  the  speaker  with  new  interest.  There  was 
just  a  possibility  that  this  fashion-plate  dude  was 
not  such  a  fool  as  he  looked. 

A  long  pause  ensued,  and  Creighton  sought  re 
lief  from  his  hideous  surroundings  by  gazing  out 
of  the  long  factory-like  windows,  each  of  which 
framed  a  picture  whose  beauty  ministered  to  his 
artistic  sensibilities.  Was  it  possible  that  the 
great  hulk  on  the  stool  saw  anything  of  the  won 
derful  colors,  lights,  and  shadows  of  the  river  and 
the  river  craft  at  which  he  was  stupidly  staring4? 
.  .  .  No,  that  flabby,  perspiring  personality  blot 
ting  the  scene  had  no  soul  above  Kopec  gum! 
...  It  was  disgusting  to  have  to  treat  with  such 
people  at  all.  .  .  .  They  should  never  buy  a 
pound  from  him  if  he  were  Ballister  and  Beck ! 

"What  you  gettin'  for  it  now'?" 

Coulson  had  to  repeat  his  question  before  he  at 
tracted  the  salesman's  attention. 

"I  haven't  offered  any  this  year  yet,"  he  an 
swered,  evasively. 

"Prices  stiffening,  eh?' 

"Never  known  anything  like  it." 

"What's  the  reason?' 

[130 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

Creighton  vaguely  recalled  Mr.  Beck's  refer 
ences  to  floods,  famine,  and  pestilence,  but  they 
sounded  too  much  like  "battle,  murder  and  sudden 
death,"  of  the  Litany,  so  he  cast  his  teaching  to 
the  winds. 

"I  really  can't  say;"  he  answered,  truthfully, 
1  'except  that  there's  an  increased  demand  and  a 
diminished  supply." 

Coulson  spat  reflectively  at  the  cuspidor  and 
barely  ringed  it. 

"Hog!"  muttered  Creighton  to  himself  as  he 
edged  his  chair  away. 

"I  thought  maybe/'  the  old  man  went  on, 
slowly  shifting  his  tobacco  quid  into  his  other 
cheek — "I  thought  maybe  there  might  be  another 
flood — same's  last  year." 

Creighton  shook  his  head.  "I  think  not,"  he 
answered. 

"It  was  the  penter-bug  year  before  last.  Weren't 
it  the  penter-bug,  Tom,  that  made  the  short  sup 
ply?"  Mr.  Coulson  continued,  gravely. 

"Yes,  sir — penter-bug.    They  had  'em  bad/' 

"Sure  'tain't  them,  sonny?" 

Mr.  Coulson's  face  was  as  solemn  as  his  in 
quiry  but  Creighton  was  equally  serious. 

"I  haven't  heard  of  the  penter-bug  this  year," 
he  answered,  gravely. 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"Well,  what's  offerin"?" 

Coulson  again  made  trial  of  the  receptacle  on 
the  floor,  but  this  time  missed  it  altogether. 

"Beast!"  shuddered  Creighton,  drawing  in  his 
legs.  Coulson  had  ceased  to  be  merely  offensive 
to  him.  He  was  loathsome,  repellent — nause 
ating. 

"Little  or  nothing,"  he  answered  aloud.  "If  he 
does  that  again  I'll  leave  the  place!"  he  added, 
mentally. 

"Urn,"  reflected  Mr.  Coulson.  "Good  we  don't 
want  none.  But,  come  to  think  of  it,  we  may  need 
a  case  or  two  until  we  get  the  new  process  cutered 
up.  How  much'll  we  take,  Tom'?" 

"Don't  need  none,"  asserted  Tom,  with  prompt 
ness.  "Not  an  ounce." 

"Reckon  you're  right,"  commented  the  head  of 
the  house,  "but  if  the  stuff's  marketable  'twon't 
do  no  harm  to  have  a  pound  or  two  if  we  have  to 
lay  off  on  t'other  process  for  a  while." 

"We  won't  have  no  need  to  lay  off,  and  the 
stuff'll  only  clutter  us  up,"  growled  Tom. 

"Guess  you're  right,  boy,  but  I'm  gettin'  old 

an'  conservative,  and  this  young  feller's  been  so 

perlite  an'   informin'   I  hate  to  send  him  away 

empty-handed.    What  price  for  two  cases,  son?" 

[133] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

Coulson  shot  twice  at  his  floor  target  in  rapid 
succession  before  Creighton  could  reply. 

"We  don't  deal  in  odd  lots  this  year,"  he  an 
swered  with  outward  firmness  and  an  inward 
shudder. 

Coulson  started  to  smile,  but  contented  himself 
with  a  nod  of  interested  receptivity. 

"Well,  what's  askin'  for  full  lots'?"  he  inquired, 
carelessly,  ranging  his  target  into  position. 

"Every  time  he  does  it,"  shrieked  Creighton's 
thought,  "I'll  raise  the  price,  if  I  lose  my  job!" 

Then  aloud  he  queried,  "Car  lots'?"  and  moved 
discreetly  out  of  range. 

"Yep!" 

Coulson  leaned  menacingly  forward  as  he  an 
swered,  and  Creighton  silently  quoted  "Eighty!" 
as  he  averted  his  gaze  in  disgust. 

"Car  lots?"  he  repeated,  reflectively.  "Spot  or 
future?" 

Coulson  illustrated  his  answer — "Spot!" 

"Not  under  eighty-one!"  resolved  Creighton, 
with  a  shudder. 

"If  the  quantity  were  large,"  he  began,  slowly, 

"we  might "  He  hesitated.  "Do  it  if  you 

dare !"  he  mentally  challenged. 

"Might  make  a  concession,  maybe?"  prompted 
Coulson,  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

[134] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"No — we  might  not  be  able  to  deliver  at  any 
price,"  the  ex-poker-player  answered. 

"Sho!" 

"Tang!"  went  the  cuspidor. 

"Eighty-two!"  decided  Creighton,  sternly,  to 
himself. 

"Well,  let's  say/'  Coulson  began— "let's  say" 
— he  paused  and  looked  reflectively  at  the  floor. 

"Better  not — better  not!"  threatened  Creigh- 
ton's  thought  as  he  watched  the  movement. 

"Let's  say  ten  cars,"  concluded  the  old  man, 
with  a  well-directed  deluge. 

"Eighty-three,"  answered  Creighton,  firmly. 
"Swine!"  he  whispered,  fiercely,  under  his  breath. 

Coulson  gave  a  short  laugh,  slowly  descended 
from  his  perch,  took  the  quid  from  his  mouth,  and 
threw  it  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"You  can  send  us  two  cases,  young  feller,  at 
seventy-eight.  Not  'cause  we  need  'em,  but  for 
sake  of  old  times,"  he  announced,  as  he  reseated 
himself  at  the  table. 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Coulson,  but  car  lots  at  eighty- 
three  are  the  lowest  figures  to-day." 

"Then  we'll  wait  for  to-morrow." 

Coulson's  expression  of  amusement  altered  for 
the  worse  as  he  jerked  out  his  tobacco-pouch. 

[135] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"I  can't  keep  the  offer  open,"  warned  Creigh- 
ton. 

The  old  man  eyed  his  imperturbable  visitor 
with  rapidly  increasing  wrath. 

"I'm  busy  to-day,  young  gentleman,  an'  I  shall 
be  to-morrow,"  he  growled  in  an  ugly  tone. 
"You're  new  and  young,  and  you  were  kind  of 
amusin'  for  a  while.  But  the  jokin's  over.  If 
you  don't  know  who  you're  dealin'  with  you 
oughtn't  to  be  sent  here.  If  you  do  know — quit 
foolin'  and  get  down  to  business." 

Mr.  Coulson  angrily  plucked  a  bunch  of  to 
bacco  from  his  pouch  as  he  spoke,  and  Creighton 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"My  business  is  over,  Mr.  Coulson,"  he  an 
nounced.  "I'm  sorry  I  can't  leave  our  offer  open, 
but " 

"You  can't  leave  here  too  quick,  you  dressed- 
up  jackanapes!"  the  old  man  burst  out.  "You're 
too  smart  for  this  business,  and  I'll  assist  you  to 
get  out  of  it.  If  you  come  up  here  thinkin'  you 
can  dictate  to  us,  you  want  to  think  again  unless 
it  strains  you  too  much.  I'll  telegraph  your  firm 
to-night  that  I'll  import  my  own  Kopec  hereafter 
and  be  damned  to  them,  unless  you've  got  brains 
enough  to  pass  the  word  yourself." 

[136] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

"I'm  not  a  messenger!"  retorted  Creighton, 
with  dignity,  as  he  pulled  on  his  gloves. 

"You're  an  ass!"  roared  the  old  man.  "No 
light-weight  dude  can  bluff  this  firm  and  if " 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  mumble  as  he  stuffed 
a  fresh  quid  into  his  mouth. 

"If  he  begins  again  before  I  leave,"  Creighton 
mentally  determined,  "I'll  resign  rather  than  sell 
the  beast  at  all." 

But  the  customer  let  him  go  with  a  few  more 
threats,  which  Qreighton  blandly  answered  by 
saying  he  would  call  next  day. 

Coulson  &  Son's  telegram  to  Ballister  &  Beck 
offering  seventy-eight  for  ten  car-lots  of  Kopec 
was  received  by  the  junior  partner,  who  merely 
answered  that  their  repesentative  was  in  the  neigh 
borhood  and  would  call.  Then  came  a  telegram 
complaining  of  Creighton  and  threatening  impor 
tations.  Telegrams,  however,  were  not  the  cus 
tom  with  Coulson  &  Son,  and  their  haste  indicated 
that  their  present  needs  were  urgent.  Mr.  Beck, 
therefore,  replied  that  the  matter  was  in  Creigh- 
ton's  hands  and  that  he  had  full  authority. 

Two  days  later  the  new  salesman  returned  with 
an  order  for  twenty-five  car-lots  at  eighty-three. 
The  sale  was  unprecedented,  but  the  man  did  not 

[137] 


THE  PERSONAL  EQUATION 

seem  to  realize  his  achievement,  and  was  unac 
countably  chary  of  details. 

"I  thought  he  was  the  right  sort/'  observed 
Mr.  Beck  to  his  associate,  "but  I  admit  I  didn't 
think  he  could  tackle  old  man  Coulson. 

"They  must  have  had  a  hot  fight,"  Mr.  Bal- 
lister  reflected. 

"Creighton  says  it  was  only  a  spat,"  answered 
the  junior  partner. 


[138] 


X 

IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

EVERY  man  on  the  troopship  felt  something 
of  a  thrill  as  he  listened  to  the  hoarse,  al 
most  savage  cheering  of  the  throngs  gath 
ered  to  watch  the  embarkation  of  the  Battalion 
of  the  C.  I.  V.'s.  The  roar  of  voices  struck  the 
vessel's  side  in  great  waves  of  sound,  but  there  was 
one  man  at  least  who  could  not  join  his  comrades 
in  the  answering  cheers. 

Had  Corporal  Saunders  been  of  a  little — a  very 
little — different  fibre,  his  patriotism  would  have 
expended  itself  in  moist-eyed  enthusiasm  at  the 
music  halls.  As  it  was  he  stood  upon  the  deck  of 
a  troopship,  hat  in  hand,  glowing  with  a  reveren 
tial  awe  such  as  he  had  often  felt  when  the  colors 
were  saluted  or  the  national  anthem  played. 

It  was  not  until  the  steamer  had  glided  from 
her  moorings  and  the  cheers  were  reaching  her  in 
fiercer  but  fainter  volleys  of  encouragement  and 
godspeed  that  Saunders  awoke  to  what  was  going 
on  about  him.  Then  he  leaped  upon  the  rail 

[139] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

and  yelled  with  all  his  might  at  the  black  mass 
upon  the  dock. 

John  Saunders  was  a  simple-minded  fellow — 
not  very  capable,  perhaps,  and  not  very  command 
ing — but  his  enthusiasm  and  earnestness  had  car 
ried  weight  and  made  him  a  corporal  in  the  bat 
talion.  What  he  lacked  as  a  disciplinarian  he 
made  up  by  general  popularity,  for  the  men  liked 
him  and  easily  accepted  his  limited  authority.  As 
one  of  the  squad  put  it,  "  'E's  a  bit  of  a  muff,  is 
Saunders,  but  yer  can't  'elp  likin'  Jim." 

Once  in  South  Africa,  however,  troubles  rained 
thick  and  fast  on  Corporal  Saunders,  C.I.V.  They 
began  with  the  opening  engagement  when  Saun 
ders  picked  up  the  first  man  who  fell  and  carried 
him  to  the  rear. 

For  this  offense  he  was  promptly  reduced  to  the 
ranks. 

But  Saunders  made  no  complaint  and  answered 
all  expressions  of  sympathy  by  admitting  that 
what  he  had  done  was  against  good  discipline  and 
deserved  censure. 

But  it  was  only  a  day  or  two  after  his  reduction 
that  an  officer  located  Private  Saunders  lying  be 
hind  a  rock  a  hundred  yards  back  of  the  firing 
line.  He  could  get  a  better  elevation  there  he 
[140] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

explained.    With  an  oath  the  officer  ordered  him 
to  the  front. 

"Mark  that  man!"  he  said  to  the  sergeant,  as 
Saunders  crawled  in  among  his  prostrate  com 
rades.    "He's  been  trying  to  get  'a  better  eleva 
tion'  a  hundred  yards  back.     If  he  tries  it  again 
?? 

The  speaker  stopped  suddenly  as  though  listen 
ing,  turned  his  head  and  fell  crashing  down  upon 
Saunders'  outstretched  form.  The  private  extri 
cated  himself  and  glanced  at  the  officer's  face.  A 
thin  trickle  of  blood  was  flowing  from  a  tiny 
wound  in  the  forehead  between  the  eyes. 

Saunders  placed  his  hand  under  the  supine 
head.  With  a  shriek  he  pulled  it  out  dripping 
with  blood. 

"Shut  your  mouth,  blast  yer!"  muttered  the 
man  next  him.  "Ain't  yer  satisfied  with  'avin' 
'im  stand  up  an'  show  the  beggars  where  we  are 
without  a  'ollering  at  'em4?" 

He  rolled  the  body  over  as  he  spoke  and  the 
shocking  wound  in  the  back  of  the  head  showed 
where  the  Mauser  bullet  had  made  its  frightful 
exit.  But  war  had  already  made  these  men  famil 
iar  with  death  and  callous  to  its  most  horrid 
forms.  They  lay  prostrate  behind  the  low  en 
trenchment,  makin^  no  sound  lest  it  betray  their 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

presence  to  the  watchful  enemy.  But  the  dead 
officer  had  already  done  that,  and  almost  instantly 
a  shower  of  bullets  began  to  drop  on  the  mound 
before  them,  scattering  the  dirt  or  ricochetting  on 
the  rocks.  The  men  only  pressed  their  faces  closer 
into  the  earth  and  lay  there  in  silence,  staring  into 
one  another's  faces  or  at  the  backs  of  each  other's 
heads.  There  was  another  shower  of  bullets,  then 
a  few  scattering  shots  and  then  silence  again. 
For  ten  minutes  no  one  stirred  or  spoke.  Then  a 
sergeant  wiped  the  mud  from  his  eyes. 

"O,  I  say,  Saunders!"  he  began  without  rais 
ing  his  head  from  the  ground,  "If  yer  still  keen 
on  gettin'  th'  V.C.,  me  man,  just  tyke  'is  body 
back."  He  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of 
the  corpse. 

Saunders  flushed  as  the  men  near  him  snickered, 
but  made  no  reply.  Then  two  or  three  other  men 
turned  their  heads  to  listen,  and  the  sergeant  con 
tinued  : 

"But  don't  forget  to  come  back  yourself  this 
time,  me  'ero.  Yer  don't  fancy  them  little  singin' 
pills'?  Well  'e  don't  mind  'em,  'e's  bullet  proof, 
'e  is,  and  you're  gun-shy,  ain't  yer*?" 

A  general  laugh  greeted  this  somewhat  grisly 
jest,  but  Saunders  made  no  answer,  lying  still  as 
the  stiffening  corpse  behind  him.  A  stray  bullet 

[142] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

topped  the  mound  just  above  his  head  and  set  the 
earth  flowing  in  little  rivulets  towards  his  crim 
soned  face,  which  blanched  as  the  hot  dust  touched 
it.  Thus  he  crouched  and  burrowed  till  evening 
came. 

Just  before  the  next  engagement  Saunders  cut 
one  of  his  fingers  with  a  can-opener  and  asked  the 
surgeon  to  detail  him  to  camp  duty.  Then  he 
began  to  be  the  general  butt  of  the  company.  "As 
big  as  Saunders'  wound,"  was  a  saying  of  every 
tent  and  "Saunders'  rear  elevation"  the  jest  of 
every  rifle.  Saunders  took  it  all  good-naturedly, 
laughing  weakly  at  the  oft-repeated  jests  and  al 
most  morbidly  anxious  to  be  the  first  to  see  the 
point  of  any  new  shaft  of  wit.  "O,  I  say,  that  is 
a  ripper !"  he  cried  as  a  Canadian  introduced  a  new 
American  drink  as  "a  regular  Saunders'  shake." 
Indeed,  so  meekly  did  he  receive  the  torrent  of 
ridicule  that  the  fun  of  playing  upon  him  soon 
palled.  But  the  thing  utterly  ceased  to  be  a  joke 
when  the  ambulance  corps  picked  up  Saunders  a 
few  yards  in  front  of  the  trenches  from  which  his 
regiment  had  charged,  and  the  surgeon  declared 
there  was  absolutely  nothing  the  matter  with  the 
man  but  sheer  fright.  Then  his  comrades  set  to 
in  earnest  and  gave  him  no  peace  day  or  night. 
Youngsters  half  his  size  slapped  his  face,  and 

[143] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

giants  twice  his  weight  knocked  him  down  when 
he  attempted  to  retaliate.  The  word  was  passed 
from  company  to  company  and  from  regiment  to 
regiment.  Many  of  his  persecutors  were  men  he 
had  never  seen  before,  but  ever}'  one  seemed  to 
know  and  have  a  shy  at  the  coward.  Men  sprang 
upon  him  when  he  slept  and  tossed  him  in  his 
blankets.  Men  lay  in  wait  behind  boulders  and 
in  thickets,  springing  forth  and  startling  him  with 
yells.  Men  crept  up  behind  him  and  rolled  him 
on  the  earth,  threatening  him  with  their  pistols 
till  he  ate  dirt  or  grovelled  for  their  amusement. 

Against  all  this,  not  one  word  of  protest  did 
John  Saunders  utter.  In  his  heart  he  knew  he  was 
a  coward  and  prayed  that  these  things  might  cure 
him. 

But  resolve  as  he  might,  at  the  very  next  oppor 
tunity  the  soul  of  the  man  shrivelled  within  him 
and  he  skulked  and  lied — lied  even  to  himself. 

At  times  there  would  be  lulls  in  the  fierce  fight 
ing,  and  during  these  days  he  would  nurse  back 
something  of  the  old  feeling  which  had  inspired 
him  on  the  troopship.  Then  he  would  draw  him 
self  up  and  salute  the  flag  with  all  the  solemnity 
of  a  new  oath  of  allegiance. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  respites  that  he  man 
aged  to  get  to  the  firing  line  with  no  visible  signs 

[144] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

of  fear.  But  his  courage  failed  at  the  bayonet 
charge  and  he  fell  upon  the  ground  feigning 
wounds. 

Nothing  seemed  to  make  any  difference,  neither 
honor  nor  disgrace,  nor  love  of  country,  nor  love 
of  friends  nor  love  of  self.  He  was  a  physical 
coward — with  insufficient  will  power  to  conquer 
his  weakness. 

Finally  one  day  in  a  craze  of  fear  he  again 
feigned  injury  and  this  time  crept  under  the  body 
of  a  fallen  comrade  to  protect  his  own  carcass  from 
stray  bullets.  Then  the  men  stopped  playing 
practical  jokes  and  "sent  him  to  Coventry.55 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  to  him  except  by  way 
of  orders.  He  was  assigned  to  the  hardest  work 
— the  dirtiest  jobs — the  longest  hours  of  labor. 
At  meal  times  when  he  took  his  place  in  line  he 
would  be  ejected  without  a  word,  but  with  every 
sign  of  contempt. 

It  was  in  a  protracted  period  of  inactivity,  dur 
ing  which  Saunders  had  been  slowly  coaxing  back 
his  self-respect,  that  he  started  on  one  of  the  soli 
tary  walks  which  had  long  been  his  only  form  of 
recreation.  No  one  in  camp  would  associate  with 
him  and  he  was  debarred  from  every  kind  of  sport, 
so  he  had  taken  to  walking  by  himself  as  far  as 
the  limits  of  an  extended  camp  would  permit.  For 

[145] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

a  time  he  followed  the  turnings  of  a  little  stream 
and  then  sat  down  by  its  bank.  As  he  did  so  he 
noticed,  lying  on  the  ground  near  him,  a  rough 
coat  and  hat  and  a  bandolier  similar  to  that  worn 
by  the  Boers.  The  thought  struck  him  that  these 
would  be  looked  upon  as  trophies  by  his  com 
rades.  Possibly  he  might  aid  in  reinstating  him 
self  in  their  esteem  by  making  presents  of  this 
booty  to  certain  leaders  of  opinion.  He  walked 
to  the  place  where  the  things  lay,  picked  up  the 
dirty  coat  and  hat,  and  slinging  the  bandolier 
across  his  shoulders,  lay  down  beside  the  stream. 

He  was  growing  desperate  with  loneliness. 
How  much  longer  could  he  stand  the  utter  isola 
tion  without  going  mad  *?  Was  he  the  only  coward 
in  the  regiment,  or  the  only  one  who  could  not 
conceal  it*?  He  had  heard  men  curse  the  generals, 
the  army,  the  government,  the  war — even  the  uni 
form  they  were  wearing — the  country  they  were 
serving.  He  could  never  do  that !  In  his  bitterest 
moments  he  respected  the  very  name  of  England. 
In  his  best,  he  worshipped  it.  To  him  the  flag 
was  a  living  thing  toward  which  his  spirit  leaped 
even  when  his  body  shrank  into  shameful  impo 
tence.  He  knew  that  he  loved  his  country  far 
more  than  many  of  his  fellows  who  had  done 
glorious  deeds  and  died  glorious  deaths  in  her 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

name.  If  he  could  only  surprise  some  of  those 
sneering,  callous  men  into  an  expression  of  fear! 
What  encouragement  there  would  be  in  that !  If 
he  could  only  do  something  that  looked  coura 
geous — what  a  triumph  would  be  his !  Surely,  he 
could  spur  himself  to  some  noticeable  act.  Courage 
was  so  common  it  was  difficult  to  obtain  recogni 
tion  for  ordinary  bravery.  But  in  his  case ? 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

The  chill  of  evening  warned  him  that  he  had 
stayed  later  than  he  should,  for  he  had  wandered 
farther  than  usual  that  afternoon,  and  snatching 
up  the  Boer  coat  and  hat  he  hastened  to  retrace 
his  steps.  At  first  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
his  thoughts  to  notice  how  long  he  had  been  walk 
ing,  but  the  gathering  darkness  soon  filled  him 
with  alarm  lest  he  had  missed  his  way,  and  it  was 
with  positive  relief  that  he  at  last  saw  the  smoke 
of  camp  fires  in  the  distance. 

As  he  hurried  forward  his  attention  was  sud 
denly  attracted  by  a  group  of  men,  in  a  small 
clearing,  screened  by  undergrowth  from  the  road 
below,  but  quite  exposed  from  the  point  at  which 
he  was  then  standing. 

Doubtless  they  were  the  set  of  gamblers  who 
often  gathered  in  out-of-the-way  nooks  to  play 
cards  and  throw  dice.  A  sudden  thought  struck 

EH?] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

him  and  he  laughed  outright.  What  if  he  should 
give  these  fellows  a  taste  of  practical  joking  and 
a  bit  of  a  scare?  If  he  were  to  have  any  compan 
ion  in  cowardice,  here  was  his  chance.  What  if 
he  could  succeed  in  compelling  the  surrender  of 
the  entire  group? 

He  slipped  on  the  Boer  coat,  threw  the  bando 
lier  over  his  shoulders,  and  stuffing  his  own  cap 
into  his  uniform  pulled  the  rough  hat  over  his 
eyes.  He  would  sneak  down  on  those  fellows,  and 
armed  with  a  stick  for  a  rifle,  order  them  to  throw 
down  their  weapons  and  hold  up  their  hands. 
Then  he  would  seize  the  discarded  arms  and  com 
pel  them — yes — compel  them — he  was  desperate 
enough  to  shed  blood  if  necessary — to  march  back 
to  camp.  Then  let  them  call  him  a  coward  if 
they  could? 

Picking  up  a  straight  stick  he  dropped  into  the 
bushes  and  began  crawling  toward  the  group  of 
men.  From  the  moment  he  left  the  roadway  his 
quarry  ceased  to  be  in  view,  but  he  stopped  every 
now  and  then  and  listened  for  the  sound  of  voices. 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  crept,  with  movements  he 
thought  Indian-like  in  their  stealth,  and  nearer 
and  nearer,  but  no  sound  of  voices  rewarded  his 
efforts.  His  plan  was  to  reach  the  edge  of  the 
clearing  unobserved,  make  sure  of  the  identity  of 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

the  men  in  case  they  should  flee,  and  then  demand 
their  surrender  at  the  muzzle  of  his  dummy  rifle. 
He  raised  his  head  and  listened.  Not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard.  He  crept  forward  two  or  three 
paces  a  little  more  rapidly,  looked  up  again  and 
found  himself  covered  by  the  rifles  of  a  dozen 
men. 

They  were  a  rough-looking  lot.  Some  of  them 
were  without  coats  and  some  without  hats,  but 
such  uniform  as  they  did  wear  was  regulation 
khaki.  A  glance  told  him  he  knew  none  of  the 
party.  Doubtless  they  were  some  of  Torrington's 
Scouts.  But  the  hope  that  they  might  not  know 
him  was  instantly  abandoned  as  he  remembered 
how  many  times  it  had  already  deluded  him. 

For  a  few  heart-beats  the  group  of  soldiers  and 
the  practical  joker  stared  at  one  another  in  silence. 
Then  instinctively  Saunders  turned  to  his  old 
refuge  of  good  nature. 

"O,  I  say,  you  fellows,"  he  began,  "this  is  a  rum 
go!  I  rather  thought  I'd  have  you  dancin'  this 
time  but  I  fancy  I  can  'op  a  bit  myself?  Eh,4?" 

No  one  answered  this  jquery,  and  Saunders 
continued : 

"Let's  tumble  back  to  camp,  mates,  an'  'ave  a 
wet  on  it  'fore  roll-call.  I'm  dry  wot  with  walkin' 
and  crawlin'  through  these  bloomin'  bushes  and, 

[149] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

my  eye!  but  I  Jave  torn  myself  creepin'  so  still- 
like " 

"Git  up!"  ordered  one  of  the  men  sharply. 

"All  right,  matey,  no  hoffense,  I  'ope." 

'Git  up,  I  said !"  exclaimed  the  man  again,  "an* 
hold  your  hands  up  while  yer  do  ut!" 

The  prisoner  raised  his  hands  and  inserting  his 
thumb  in  his  ears  wriggled  the  free  fingers  in  a 
manner  but  little  suggestive  of  fear  or  respect. 

Continuing  this  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and 
bringing  his  heels  together  saluted  the  party  with 
a  gesture  that  rested  his  thumb  on  the  end  of  his 
nose. 

"Quit  yur  nonsense  and  tell  us  yur  name,"  or 
dered  the  spokesman. 

"My  name?  Roberts,  o'  course!  Don't  ye 
recognize  your  general?  But,  p'raps,  yer  only 
acquainted  with  Gen.  French,  for  you're  Irish  if 
I  ever  'card  it.  The  Irish  only  know  French! 
That's  not  bad,  I  fancy.  Irish  only  know  French! 
See?" 

"Your  name,  an'  be  spry  about  'ut !" 

Again  the  hope  that  they  might  not  know  him 
overrode  his  judgment. 

"Tompkins,"  he  answered,  "Robert  Tompkins, 
known  to  my  friends  as  Bobs." 

[150] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

"Search  him,"  directed  the  leader  "and  sthripe 
him  to  th'  skin,  byes." 

Before  he  knew  what  was  happening  two  men 
fell  upon  him  and  began  tearing  off  his  clothes, 
examining  each  article  minutely — even  his  shoes 
and  socks.  Only  an  envelope  plainly  addressed: 
"Corporal  John  Saunders,  C.I.V.,"  rewarded  their 
search. 

"So  ye  give  false  names  to  us,  Corporal," 
queried  the  first  speaker.  "  'Tis  little  good  'twill 
do  ye.  Put  on  yer  duds  again — all  except  thim," 
he  pointed  significantly  to  the  Boer  bandolier,  coat 
and  hat. 

One  man  was  left  to  guard  him  and  the  rest 
of  the  group  retired  a  few  paces  where  they  held 
an  animated  discussion.  Meanwhile  Saunders 
was  thinking  rapidly.  Whatever  happened  he 
would  show  no  fear.  He  would  defy  them,  and, 
if  they  went  too  far,  defend  himself.  He  must 
come  out  of  this  scrape  better  than  he  went  in. 

For  ten  minutes  his  captors  debated  and 
wrangled  with  considerable  heat,  and  from  time  to 
time  Saunders  caught  a  few  words. 

"No,  Sor!  Oi'll  not  hov  ut!  .  .  .  'Twas  no 
more  than  they  did  to  ther  Boers  pathriots  in  '30" 
.  .  .  "Tis  little  Oi  care  fer  thot"  .  .  .  "Sure 
he'd  not  do  ut !  Thry  him  if  yer  loike.  'Tis  little 

' 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

luck  ye'll  hov."  .  .  .  "Thin  the  rope  fur  him." 

At  last  one  of  the  men  approached. 

"Now,  me  boy,"  he  began  "sphake  truth  an' 
'twill  do  ye  no  harm.  Where  be  the  British 
batheries  masked  yonder?"  He  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  spoke. 

"The  same  as  they  were  yesterday,  the  day 
afore  and  the  day  arter,  Pat." 

"Spake  better  than  thot,  me  lad,  if  yud  live 
till  marnin !  Ye  moinde  what  they  do  by  spoies 
in  the  army,  me  boy*?" 

Spies!  Saunders  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
speaker  for  a  moment  without  answering.  Then 
he  began  to  laugh.  They  were  playing  at  being 
Boers !  Well,  he  had  played  in  that  game  before. 
This  time,  however,  they  wouldn't  catch  him. 

"Spies  are  hanged  by  the  neck  until  they  are 
dead,  and  the  Lord  has  mercy  on  their  so-o-ouls !" 
he  chanted,  glibly. 

"Is  ut  crazy  ye  are  thot  ye  laugh  in  death's 
face,  man?" 

The  words  were  almost  a  whisper  and  Saunders 
instantly  stopped  laughing.  He  must  appear  to 
take  them  seriously  or  lose  some  of  the  credit 
this  chance  might  give  him.  If  he  showed  them 
he  knew  the  game,  there  would  be  no  bravery  in 
not  fearing  them. 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

"What  do  you  want4?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"If  ye'll  be  afther  tellin'  us  whot  guns  the 
British  hov  on  th'  lift  and  where  the  masked  bat 
teries  do  be — shure  Oi  think  the  byes  '11  not 
sthring  ye." 

"Will  I  betray  my  friends,  you  dirty  traitors'? 
Is  that  what  you  mean?  Won't  you  and  'the 
byes'  'urry  back  to  'ell  before  the  devil  misses 
you " 

The  man's  face  crimsoned,  but  he  laid  a  trem 
bling  hand  on  Saunders'  shoulder  and  whispered : 

"Oi'm  tryin'  to  help  ye,  lad.  If  ye  don't  tell 
thim,  'tis  swingin'  ye'll  be.  There's  no  coort  mar 
tial  here,  remimber." 

A  shade  of  suspicion  crossed  Saunders'  mind. 
What  if  they  should  be  Boers  after  all?  There 
were  Irish  in  the  Boer  army.  He  had  heard  of  the 

Irish  Brigade.  What  if *?  He  would  not 

allow  himself  the  question.  He  must  beat  them 
at  their  own  game.  Now  was  his  chance — now 
or  never. 

The  man  who  had  been  questioning  him 
awaited  an  answer  for  a  moment,  and  then  step 
ping  back  to  the  group  of  comrades  spoke  to  them 
in  a  low  tone.  Again  the  leader  approached  Saun 
ders  and  solemnly  addressed  him. 

"Corp'ral  Saunders,  you've  stolen  into  our  lines 

[153] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

disguised  and  are  a  spoy  deservin'  death  be  all 
th'  rules  av  war.  But  we  spake  th'  same  tongue, 
so  if  ye'll  join  th'  gallant  Brigade  an'  give  in- 
formashun  accordin',  we'll  spare  yer  life  and  ra- 
port  a  foine  recruit  instid  av  hangin'  a  spoy." 

Something  in  the  speaker's  voice  made  Saun- 
ders'  heart  sink  again — but  only  for  a  moment. 
This  was  the  same  old  game,  better  played — that 
was  all.  He  must  rise  to  the  occasion.  So  he 
smiled  in  the  speaker's  face. 

"I  don't  know  as  I'm  much  use  to  'er  Majesty," 
he  answered,  slowly,  "an'  I  'ave  me  doubts 
whether  she'd  'unt  me  up,  but  I  can  stop  the 
mouth  of  the  mut  'oo  speaks  bloody  treason  to  one 
of  'er  soldiers," — and  Saunders'  fist  struck  his 
questioner  full  across  the  mouth. 

In  an  instant  he  was  felled  to  the  ground.  For 
some  time  he  knew  nothing,  but  as  his  senses 
slowly  returned  he  heard  voices  speaking  close  to 
him  and  again  he  caught  a  few  words. 

"No,  Oi  say  Oi'll  not  hov  ut!  'Tis  a  plucky 
lad  and  what  the  divil's  difference  does  it  make 
to  you,  O'Toole,  which  way  he  goes?" 

The  men  continued  to  wrangle,  but  Saunders 
ceased  listening.  The  words  "  'Tis  a  plucky  lad" 
rang  in  his  ears.  He  had  succeeded  at  last !  Now 

[154] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

let  the  game  go  on !  Nothing  could  frighten  him 
hereafter. 

They  led  him  to  a  tree  and  he  faced  their  rifles 
with  a  generous  smile  of  triumph. 

"Will  ye  put  up  a  bit  av  a  prayer,  lad?"  whis 
pered  one  of  his  guards. 

"God  save  the  Queen!"  responded  Saunders. 

The  man  laid  his  rifle  on  the  ground,  and  pull 
ing  out  a  handkerchief  started  to  bind  the  pris 
oner's  eyes.  Saunders  stopped  him  with  a  gesture 
and  addressed  the  group  before  him,  speaking  as 
gravely  as  he  could. 

"Are  you  going  to  shoot  me,  mates?" 

No  one  answered,  but  the  man  by  his  side 
nodded  and  again  started  to  bind  his  eyes. 

"O,  I  say,  drop  that,"  interrupted  Saunders, 
pushing  him  off.  "I  may  be  gun-shy,  you  know, 
but  I'm  not  wantin'  blinders." 

"For  the  luv  of  Hivin  man,  hov  ye  no  last 
requist?"  murmured  the  man  in  a  shaking  voice. 

Saunders  looked  at  him,  doubt  again  assailing 
his  heart.  But  he  crushed  it  down  and  answered 
blithely : 

" 'Ave  I  any  last  request4?  Let  me  see?  No. 
Yes,  I  'ave — a  light  for  my  poipe  'ere.  'Ave  yer 
a  match  about  yer,  Paddy?" 

The  man  handed  him  the  match  and  stepped 

[155] 


IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ENEMY 

back.  As  he  struck  it  a  dull  volley  sounded  and 
Saunders  fell  to  the  ground  pierced  by  a  dozen 
bullets. 

A  flag  of  truce  accompanied  by  four  men  carry 
ing  a  litter  approached  the  British  lines.  As  the 
answering  flag  neared  the  party,  the  bearers  rested 
the  litter  on  the  ground  and  retired.  When  the 
British  reached  the  stretcher  they  found  on  it 
the  body  of  a  man  to  whose  breast  was  pinned  a 
bit  of  paper  bearing  these  words: 

"The  Irish  Brigade  have  the  honor  of  returning 
to  his  friends  the  body  of  Corporal  Saunders, 
C.I.V.,  in  recognition  of  the  bravery  with  which 
]ke  met  death,  and  as  a  soldier's  tribute  to  a  sol 
dier  who,  though  an  enemy,  made  his  foes  forget 
it  in  their  admiration  of  the  man" 

Most  of  those  who  first  read  that  message 
laughed  and  thought  no  more  about  it.  Some 
wondered  what  it  meant,  and  a  few  solved  it  as 
delicious  irony.  A  little  later  some  of  the  Irish 
Brigade  were  captured. 

Then  the  paper  was  sent  home  to  Saunders' 
people. 


XI 

A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

AN  Italian  vendor  of  plaster  casts  had  set  up 
shop  on  the  steps  of  a  vacant  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  I  had  noticed  the  man 
before  as  Chandler  and  I  passed  on  our  morning 
walk  down  town,  and  wondering  vaguely  what  he 
paid  for  the  privilege  of  doing  business  there,  I 
put  the  thought  into  a  question  as  we  approached. 

My  companion  glanced  up  carelessly  at  the  im 
provised  booth  and  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"Do  you  see  anything  good  in  that  lot*?"  he 
asked,  disregarding  my  question  and  including  the 
Italian's  entire  collection  with  a  wide  sweep  of 
his  arm.  The  peddler  rose  expectantly  from  his 
seat  on  the  top  step  as  we  paused,  but  Chandler 
motioned  him  down  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"Do  you  see  anything  good  there  ?"  he  re 
peated. 

I  had  no  intention  of  being  lured  into  the  ex 
pression  of  an  off-hand  opinion  on  a  question  of 
art.  Chandler  was  only  too  ready  to  use  my  ig- 

[157] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

norance  as  a  platform  for  academic  utterances  and 
I  had  been  striving  for  some  time  to  guard  my 
few  remaining  illusions.  So  I  hunted  for  an  in 
nocuous  phrase  as  I  glanced  critically  at  the  little 
exhibit,  vainly  trying  to  remember  whether  it  was 
the  Wrestlers  or  the  Winged  Victory  one  was  sup 
posed  to  admire,  and  being  sorely  tempted  to 
praise  the  musicianly  Cupids  or  the  naked  lady 
with  a  real  looking-glass  in  her  terra-cotta  hand, 
in  the  hope  of  discouraging  my  would-be  precep 
tor.  But  the  experiment  was  risky  and  I  lacked 
the  courage  to  attempt  it.  Finally,  however,  I  hit 
upon  an  absolutely  barren  phrase. 

"That  one  over  there  isn't  altogether  bad,"  I 
ventured  cautiously. 

The  statuette  I  indicated  represented  a  young 
girl  standing  erect,  her  head  slightly  tilted,  her 
eyes  half  veiled,  her  lips  smiling,  her  arms  spread 
in  a  wide  droop  with  the  palms  of  the  hands 
turned  outward — the  drapery  gracefully  flowing 
with  the  lines  of  the  body,  and  the  whole  poise 
expressing  a  welcome  or  a  joyous  flight.  It  was 
roughly  done — as  a  study  might  be — but  it  sug 
gested  a  fine  work  in  the  making.  In  fact  I 
thought  it  remarkable,  but  I  didn't  intend  to  be 
caught  in  fault. 

"It's  not  altogether  bad,"  I  repeated  and  was 

[158] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

congratulating  myself  on  having  silenced  my 
friend  when  he  turned  upon  me  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger. 

"You  miserable  Philistine!"  he  exclaimed. 
"There  isn't  a  vestige  of  generosity  or  courage  in 
all  your  tribe !" 

Then  he  beckoned  the  Italian  and  ordered  the 
statuette  sent  to  his  rooms  without  even  inquiring 
the  price.  The  man  volunteered  this  information, 
however,  as  he  noted  his  patron's  name  and  ad 
dress,  and  Chandler  paid  him  on  the  spot. 

"I  trust  your  friend  doesn't  forget  to  deliver 
the  goods,"  I  observed,  suggestively,  as  we  con 
tinued  up  the  avenue. 

"If  he  wasn't  honest  he  wouldn't  be  in  that 
business.  He'd  be  in  some  other  more  question 
able  and  lucrative  line — possibly  a  competitor  of 
yours  or  mine." 

Chandler  was  evidently  in  an  ugly  mood  that 
morning  and  I  thought  it  just  as  well  to  ignore 
his  attack. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  pur 
chase^"  I  inquired  before  we  parted. 

"I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you  when  you're  able 
to  appreciate  it,"  he  snapped,  and  then  added  over 
his  shoulder, — a  trifle  hopelessly,  I  thought— 
"This  year,  next  year,  sometime,  never." 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

There  is  always  a  grateful  lull  in  Commence 
ment  festivities  the  night  before  a  university  boat 
race  and  Crosby,  Wellman,  Foster,  Chandler  and 
I  took  advantage  of  it  to  talk  over  men  and  events 
in  a  favorite  resort  of  our  undergraduate  days. 
In  the  center  of  the  room  stood  a  round  table, 
carved  with  initials,  monograms  and  numerals, 
which  looked  familiar  but  which  we  found  unde 
cipherable.  Then  we  discovered  that  the  top  of 
our  table  had  long  since  been  removed  and  was 
hanging  from  the  wall  like  an  immense  plaque, 
its  scarred  and  furrowed  face  eloquent  of  a  time 
which — thank  God — seems  like  yesterday. 

The  room  was  crowded  early  in  the  evening  but 
we  five  outstayed  the  undergraduates,  who,  with 
the  younger  Alumni,  departed  for  the  campus, 
where  we  could  hear  them  cheering  something  or 
somebody.  Occasionally  a  belated  arrival  drifted 
in  and  prowled  through  the  house  searching  for 
companionship,  but  except  for  these  stragglers  we 
had  the  place  to  ourselves. 

There  was  plently  to  talk  about.  It  was  the 
summer  of  the  Spanish  War,  and  we  discussed 
men  and  events  over  the  time-honored  pewter 
half-pints,  only  descending  to  generalities  when 
personalities  were  exhausted.  We  tried  to 
imagine  music-mad  Stevens  as  a  Captain  of  En- 

[160] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

gineers  and  failed — we  heard  of  Melvin  as  a  war 
correspondent  and,  on  the  quality  of  his  fiction, 
approved  the  selection — we  placed  Smalley  on  the 
quarter-deck  of  a  cruiser  and  laughed.  Then 
Crosby  read  us  a  newspaper  clipping  reporting  the 
speech  of  some  Spanish  official — a  bit  of  flowery 
bombast  akin  to  Favre's  '  'Not- a-stone-of -our- for 
tress — not-an-inch-of-our-territories!" 

"The  Yankee  cannon  [it  read]  will  flame 
and  belch  and  thunder  in  vain — they  will  reach 
us  only  in  reverberation!  They  cannot  touch 
— they  cannot  obliterate  Spanish  honor!" 

Under  this  was  printed: 

"We  can  generally  hit  anything  we  can  see." 

The  humor  was  characteristically  American — 
terse,  quiet  and  unanswerable. — Even  the  printed 
words  had  a  drawl  and  twang,  and  we  were  still 
laughing  at  them  when  a  man  entered  the  room 
and  greeted  Chandler  with  enthusiastic  warmth. 
Chandler  responded  cordially  enough,  but  I  no 
ticed  his  momentary  hesitation  and  felt  certain 
that  the  recognition  wasn't  mutual. 

"I  can  usually  recall  something  about  people 
I've  met,"  he  remarked  as  the  man  passed  on,  "but 
that  friendly  bird  beats  me.  I  don't  remember 
him  at  all." 

[161] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

"And  I  can't  forget  him,"  rejoined  Wellman 
— "or  rather  something  about  him.  His  name  is 
Oxley— Ephraim  Oxley." 

"Well,  who  the  devil  is  Ephraim  Oxley?'  de 
manded  Chandler. 

Wellman  laughed. 

"Now  that's  just  the  trouble!"  he  exclaimed. 
"If  I  tell  you  who  he  is  you'll  all  think  me  the 
smallest,  meanest  man  on  earth." 

"To  achieve  the  superlative  in  any  line  is 
fame,"  interrupted  Foster.  "Who's  Ephraim 
Oxley?' 

"He's  a  man  who  borrowed  ten  dollars  from 
me  fifteen  years  ago  and  never  paid  it  back.  He's 
a  first  rate  fellow,  I  believe,  and  I  wish  to  good 
ness  I  didn't  remember  the  loan  every  time  we 
meet." 

"Apparently  it  doesn't  embarrass  him,"  inter 
posed  Foster. 

"No,  but  I  should  have  reminded  him  of  it  at 
the  time,  instead  of  charging  it  up  against  him  all 
these  years.  He's  a  successful  business  man  and 
not  in  the  least  a  dead  beat,  but  whenever  I 
meet  him  I  unconsciously  calculate  the  interest  on 
my  miserable  ten  dollars.  Of  course  he  forgot  the 
whole  transaction  long  ago." 

"People  shouldn't  forget  a  thing  of  that  sort. 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

It's  as  much  a  debt  of  honor  as  a  bet,"  I  objected. 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Chandler,  "but  perhaps  he 
may  remember  it  some  day." 

"I'll  bet  you  the  ten  dollars  he  never  does," 
laughed  Wellman. 

"I  never  bet,"  responded  Chandler,  seriously, 
"and  I'll  tell  you  why.  I  was  reminded  of  it 
while  we  were  reading  this,"  he  continued,  picking 
up  the  newspaper  clipping  which  lay  upon  the 
table.  "There's  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest 
and  this  joke  about  Spanish  honor  is  a  case  in 
point,,  I  don't  believe  the  average  American  un 
derstands  the  Latin  race  at  all.  Any  way,  I 
once  knew  a  Spaniard  whose  sense  of  honor  was 
altogether  too  delicate  for  our  perceptions.  He 
was  a  sculptor  named  Ramon  and  I  met  him  when 
we  were  fellow  students  at  the  Beaux  Arts.  He 
was  a  man  of  ideas — suggestions — possibilities — 
a  creative  genius  and  an  artist,  if  ever  there  was 
one.  In  Paris  he  did  well  as  a  student — almost 
brilliantly,  but  he  had  too  much  individuality  to 
be  a  favorite  in  the  ateliers.  He  was  never  con 
tented  to  sit  very  long  at  any  one's  feet.  This 
man  gave  him  one  suggestion,  and  that  one  gave 
him  another,  but  these  suggestions  became  im 
pulses  along  his  own  line — toward  something  he 
,was  working  out  for  himself,  and  he  never  fol- 

[163] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

lowed  any  teaching  beyond  a  certain  point.  The 
Masters  no  sooner  grew  enthusiastic  over  him  than 
they  began  to  wring  their  hands  in  despair.  He 
was  untamable.  It  was  a  wise  man  who  said 
'The  artist  is  lonely — the  artisan  is  gregarious/ 
and  Ramon  was  lonely — desperately  lonely  in  the 
midst  of  imitators  and  moulders.  He  worked  for 
a  couple  of  years  in  Paris  after  finishing  his 
course  at  the  Beaux  Arts  and  then  came  over  here. 
Thank  the  Lord  I  didn't  encourage  him  to  come! 
Of  all  good  seed  wasted  on  stony  ground,  his 
was  the  most  hopeless  sowing.  He  had  no  pa 
tience  with  economy  in  a  matter  of  Art.  Specifi 
cations  and  restrictions  he  despised.  'A  work  of 
art  must  come  into  being  absolutely  unhampered/ 
he  used  to  declare.  'To  impose  a  condition  is  to" 
dispose  of  Art.  It  is  not  possible.'  That  became 
his  constant  refrain  in  the  face  of  the  ever  present 
limitations  and  requirements  of  the  business  world 
and  he  reiterated  it  again  and  again  in  accents 
varying  from  assertion  to  disgust.  Fake  work  he 
would  not  tolerate  for  an  instant,  and  he  could 
detect  it  no  matter  how  skilfully  it  was  concealed. 
He  was  always  reaching  out  for  some  big  thing 
— some  'elemental  idea/  as  he  put  it,  and  I  con 
fess  I  often  found  his  half -formed  conceptions 
more  inspiring  than  the  matured  performance  of 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

the  recognized  Masters,  though  I  continually 
urged  him  to  limit  himself  and  try  for  something 
within  reach." 

"  'Why — why?'  he  would  question  in  his  ner 
vous  impulsive  manner.  £I  am  an  artist.  I  can 
not  do  what  I  know  is  bad  art.  It  would  not  be 
honorable.  One  day  I  shall  create  something  for 
which  I  need  not  blush.  If  must  be? — Poor  old 
chap !  He  felt  the  God  in  him,  you  see." 

Chandler  paused  and  the  far-off  sound  of  cheer 
ing  floated  in  to  us  through  the  open  windows. 
We  stared  silently  at  the  hieroglyphics  of  the  table 
top  or  into  the  blue  cloud  of  smoke  and  waited 
for  Chandler  to  continue.  Most  of  us  had  felt  the 
God  in  us  at  one  time  or  another,  I  imagine. 

"I  used  to  abuse  the  poor  devil,"  Chandler  went 
on,  "and  call  him  a  dreamer  and  an  incompetent, 
in  the  hope  of  shaming  him  into  beginning  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder.  'It  is  you  who  are  not  pos 
sible!'  I  thundered  at  him  one  day.  'You  have 
the  delusion  of  grandeur  and  sit  eating  your  heart 
out  and  stoking  your  nerves  up  just  because  people 
won't  take  you  on  faith.  If  you'd  stop  smoking 
you  might  get  enough  fresh,  invigorating  Ameri 
can  air  in  your  lungs  to  make  a  practical  man  of 
you.  But  I  suppose,  if  you  could  do  that,  you 
could  do  other  things,'  I  added  impatiently. 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

"  'You  think  I  smoke  too  much?'  he  questioned. 

"  'Look  at  your  fingers/  I  retorted,  laughingly. 

"They  were  stained  as  yellow  as  a  Chinaman's 
with  nicotine,  and  Ramon  examined  them  criti 
cally  as  he  inhaled  a  deep  breath  of  smoke." 

"  'You  think  it  hurts  my  work?'  he  asked,  a 
little  anxiously. 

"  'It  doesn't  do  you  any  good,'  I  answered, 
'you're  nervous  and  high  strung  enough,  now, 
but ' 

"  'You  think  I  could  not  stop — that  I  have  not 
the  will  power?"  he  interrupted,  inquiringly. 

"  'Repentance  oft  I  swore,  but  was  I  sober 
when  I  swore/  I  quoted. 

"  'See !'  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  as  he  took  a 
long  puff  on  his  half-burned  cigarette.  'This  is 
my  last  smoke  till — three  years,  say?' 

"He  flicked  the  stump  into  the  fireplace  and 
the  inhaled  smoke  slowly  curled  from  his  nostrils 
as  he  spoke. 

"  'The  last  till  next  time/  I  prophesied,  jest 
ingly. 

"  T  bet  you/  he  began — 'I  bet  you  twenty-five 
— twenty-five  dollars  I  smoke  not  for  three 
years.'  " 

"  'Done/  I  answered  carelessly." 

Crosby  laughed  as  Chandler  paused. 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

"You  had  to  take  his  word  for  it,"  he  inter 
posed. 

"No,  I  might  have  shadowed  him  in  the  day 
time  and  hired  detectives  to  watch  him  at  night," 
retorted-  Chandler.  "Perhaps  it  was  imprudent, 
but  I  risked  his  lying." 

Crosby  cowered  behind  me — chattering  in  mock 
terror. 

"Savage?"  he  whispered.    "Wow!" 

Chandler's  grave  face  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"I  saw  less  and  less  of  Ramon  as  time  went 
on,"  he  resumed,  "but  I  heard  of  him  in  various 
competitions — two  of  which  he  won,  only  to  find 
himself  barred  by  his  nationality.  Once  he  re 
ceived  the  highest  commendation,  but  his  work 
was  rejected  as  too  expensive.  All  this  depressed 
and  discouraged  him  horribly,  but  when  I  heard 
that  he  had  declined  two  valuable  commissions 
on  the  ground  that  the  proposed  conditions  were 
incompatible  with  his  idea  of  an  artistic  result,  I 
stamped  down  to  his  studio,  prepared  to  tell  him 
what  I  thought  of  such  high  flown  folly.  But 
face  to  face  with  the  man  I  relented.  He  looked 
ill,  careworn  and  discouraged  to  the  point  of  dis 
gust.  When  I  mildly  alluded  to  the  rejected  com 
missions  he  hunted  up  the  proposals  and  laid  them 
before  me. 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

"  'They  do  not  want  art !'  he  exclaimed.  'They 
do  not  want  nature — they  want  so  and  such  many 
square  feet — so  and  such  many  pounds  weight.  I 
must  do  this  and  this  and  that,  and  not  do  so  or 
thus  or — I  tell  you  it  is  not  possible!'  he  burst 
out.  'You  must  have  room  to  spread  your  idea — 
your  conception  as  it  forms — you  must  round  it — 
round  it  out!'  " 

"In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  knew  he  was  right. 
The  thing  was  impossible  from  his  standpoint,  and 
I  felt  it  with  the  guilty  certitude  of  a  hardened 
compromiser.  I  made  some  lame  observations 
about  the  possibility  of  adjusting  oneself  to  con 
ditions  without  sacrificing  the  spirit  of  one's  art — 
about  the  need  of  submitting  to  the  discipline  of 
practical  utility  as  the  price  of  liberty  and  the 
justification  of  a  free  hand.  But  I  had  no  heart 
in  what  I  said  and  though  he  listened,  the  tired 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  was  eloquent. 

"  'I  cannot/  he  asserted  wearily.  'I  cannot !  I 
would  as  soon — I  would  rather  make  good  statu 
ettes  for  street  peddling.  It  would  be  more  honor 
able.'  " 

"I  went  home  somewhat  humbled  and  not  a 
little  dissatisfied  with  myself  and  my  own  work 
as  a  result  of  that  interview." 

"Then  Ramon  disappeared  for  a  while  in  the 

[168] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

chaos  of  the  city,  and  when  he  emerged  again  he 
was  shabbier  and  more  hollow-eyed  perhaps,  but 
there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  which  I  had  not  seen 
there  for  many  a  day  and  he  was  buoyantly  cheer 
ful.  He  had  nothing  to  report  in  the  line  of  prac 
tical  achievement.  He  had  not  received  any  com 
missions.  As  for  the  competitions,  he  bothered 
no  more  about  them.  But  he  had  been  working 
up  an  idea  which  had  occurred  to  him.  Oh — 
what  an  idea!  One  study  he  had  made  for  it. 
He  would  show  me  that  some  day,  perhaps,  but 
the  conception  was  still  largely  undeveloped.  But 
it  was  worth  while.  O,  of  that  he  felt  sure !  It 
would  take  time,  of  course.  But  if  he  could  bring 
it  to  perfection !  Ah !  it  was  a  living  thing — a  life 
work!  His  eyes  brightened  as  he  spoke,  and  I 
honestly  envied  the  poor  fellow  his  dreams  undis 
turbed  by  rude  intrusions  of  the  work-a-day 
world,  and  his  ideals  undulled  by  compromises. 
I  referred  jokingly  to  our  bet  and  he  showed  me 
his  fingers  from  which  the  yellow  stains  had  dis 
appeared." 

"  'It  is  easy  now*?'  I  suggested. 

"He  shook  his  head. 

"  'There  are  times,'  he  admitted,  'when  I  would 
gladly  lose  my  bet  if  I  had  the  money.' 

"I  offered  to  release  him,  but  he  instantly  grew 

[169] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

offended  and  I  covered  my  retreat  with  a  laugh 
which  turned  the  tactless  proposition  into  a  jest. 

"About  a  week  after  this  I  received  a  line  from 
him  confessing  that  he  had  lost  his  bet.  He  was 
humiliated,  he  wrote,  not  to  accompany  the  ad 
mission  with  a  check.  He  could  not  look  me  in 
the  face.  But  if  I  would  wait  a  little — a  very 
little  while,  I  should  be  paid. 

"I  replied  in  a  jesting  spirit,  begging  him  not 
to  think  of  the  matter  until  it  was  convenient. 
Then  a  week  slipped  by  and  I  wrote  asking  him  to 
dine  with  me.  His  answer  came  penned  in  a 
shaking  hand.  He  could  not  come  ...  I  would 
understand.  ...  he  was  humiliated.  When  he 
had  paid  his  debt  of  honor  .  .  .  but  until  then  I 
would  perceive  it  was  not  possible.  .  .  . 

"I  intended  to  look  him  up  at  once,  but  work 
piled  in  upon  me  and  before  I  realized  it  another 
week  slipped  by.  Then  one  morning  I  received 
the  check  of  an  art  dealer  for  twenty-five  dollars, 
drawn  to  my  order,  and  pinned  to  it  was  a  bit  of 
paper  with  the  scrawl,  'I  am  so  glad — Ramon.' 

"The  same  day  I  read  of  his  suicide  in  a  miser 
able  boarding  house.  I  could  learn  nothing  of  him 
there  except  that  he  had  seemed  worried  and  de 
jected  about  something  for  more  than  a  fortnight. 

[170] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

After  the  funeral  I  went  to  the  art  dealer  whose 
check  he  had  sent  me. 

"  'How  did  you  come  to  pay  Monsieur  Ramon 
this  amount  ?'  I  asked. 

"He  showed  me  a  little  statuette  and  the  mo 
ment  I  set  eyes  on  it  I  knew  what  had  happened. 
He  had  sold  the  rough  study  of  his  great  idea  to 
pay  his  bet,  and  with  it  went  his  zest  for  living.  I 
bought  the  original  and  whenever  I  come  across  a 
copy  of  it  I  take  it  off  the  market.  But  I  don't 
make  any  more  bets." 


Another  great  wave  of  cheering  for  something 
or  somebody  rolled  through  the  open  windows 
and  we  listened  without  moving,  striving  to  catch 
its  meaning  in  the  echo  of  some  name  that  faintly 
floated  in  the  air. 

Then  Crosby  roused  himself  and  hammered  the 
table  with  his  pewter  mug. 

"Crazy!"  he  blurted  out,  as  though  in  answer 
to  some  question.  "Of  course  he  was  crazy — 
crazy  as  they  make  'em!" 

"Almost  all  those  Spaniards  are,"  asserted  Fos 
ter.  "In  fact  the  whole  Latin  race  is  over 
trained." 

"I've   no   doubt   our    friend    Ephraim    Oxley 

[171] 


A  DEBT  OF  HONOR 

would  agree  with  you,"  Chandler  answered  quiet 
ly,  as  he  relit  his  pipe. 

"Tell  him  the  story  for  me,"  laughed  Wellman, 
smilingly.  "It  might  remind  him  of  something." 

As  we  walked  back  to  the  campus  Chandler  and 
I  fell  a  pace  or  two  behind  the  others. 

"I  think  I'm  qualified  to  receive  the  gift  you 
promised  me  some  time  ago,"  I  suggested.  "Will 
you  give  it  me?" 

Ramon's  friend  turned  to  me  and  nodded  si 
lently — almost  gratefully,  I  thought. 


XII 
THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

THE  night  bell  had  rung  three  times  with 
out  eliciting  any  response  from  the  back 
room  of  Ferris's  drug-store  where  Mr. 
Jared  Hunker,  the  night  clerk,  sat  engrossed  in 
literary  labor.  The  fourth  summons,  however,  was 
so  prolonged  and  insistent  that  Mr.  Hunker  laid 
aside  his  pencil,  and,  without  removing  his  eyes 
from  his  manuscript,  groped  for  the  speaking- 
tube,  whistled  through  it  interrogatively  and  then 
lifted  it  to  his  ear.  The  reply  which  reached  him 
was  the  one  word,  "Poison!" 

Startling  as  this  message  was  it  did  not  arouse 
Mr.  Hunker  to  any  immediate  activity.  Indeed, 
his  "All  right!"  muttered  in  response,  was  impa 
tient  rather  than  reassuring,  and  having  uttered  it 
he  continued  his  reading,  merely  pulling  out  the 
table  drawer  and  tipping  back  his  chair  to  accom 
modate  the  movement. 

At  last  he  reluctantly  placed  his  manuscript  in 
side  the  drawer,  closed  and  locked  it,  and  put  the 

[173] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

key  in  his  pocket.  Then  for  some  seconds  he  re 
mained  staring  dreamily  at  the  blank  wall,  before 
he  roused  himself  sufficiently  to  look  at  his  watch. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  Mr. 
Hunker  frowned  as  he  rose  from  his  chair  and, 
picking  up  a  soiled  collar  proceeded  to  adjust  it 
before  a  large  mirror  hanging  against  the  opposite 
wall.  The  clean-shaven  face  reflected  in  the  glass 
was  small,  pale  and  sickly,  and  its  youthful  fea 
tures  were  painfully  insignificant,  but  Jared 
Hunker  viewed  himself  with  evident  compla 
cency.  Even  after  his  toilet  was  completed  he 
remained  staring  in  the  mirror,  meditatively  strok 
ing  back  the  long,  light  yellow  hair  which  poured 
over  his  head  and  down  his  neck  like  a  sticky 
stream,  slightly  overflowing  at  the  collar.  He 
continued  lost  in  self-contemplative  delight  until 
the  night  bell  again  set  up  a  frantic  ringing. 

The  jangling  noise  made  every  fine-strung  nerve 
in  Jared's  little  body  tingle.  He  hated  the  drug 
store,  and  despised  every  detail  of  its  petty  trad 
ing.  His  soul,  winged  with  artistic  aspirations, 
beat  against  the  walls  of  his  environment  and  then, 
exhausted  with  vain  strivings,  tenderly  nursed  its 
bruised  pinions.  From  ten  o'clock  at  night  till 
seven  in  the  morning  he  lived  in  a  world  of  his 
own  making,  fiercely  resenting  every  interruption 

[174] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

of  his  literary  labors.  Even  when  he  donned  a 
dressing-gown  of  India  shawl  pattern  and  strode 
with  miniature  dignity  toward  the  door,  in  an 
swer  to  the  bell,  he  was  still  treading  the  courts 
of  fancy,  draped  in  the  magic,  hero-making  mantle 
of  unconquerable  self-belief. 

The  shop  was  dark  by  comparison  with  the 
back  room,  and  Mr.  Hunker  guided  himself  across 
the  tiled  floor  by  the  pin  points  of  gas  behind  the 
big  colored  bottles  which  diffused  a  blurred  glow 
of  red  and  yellow  against  the  plate-glass  shop 
front.  Outside  the  sky  was  black  and  the  show 
windows  merely  mirrored  a  faint  reflection  of  their 
own  display.  But  through  the  glass  door  Mr. 
Hunker  could  distinguish  a  white  face  peering 
closely  into  the  shop  and  the  tall  figure  of  a  man 
leaning  heavily  against  the  panel.  The  appear 
ance  of  the  visitor,  his  message  and  the  hour, 
might  well  have  combined  to  alarm  a  timid  per 
son,  but  Jared  Hunker  displayed  neither  nervous 
ness  nor  interest.  He  calmly  walked  to  the  gas- 
jet,  screened  by  the  red  bottle,  turned  it  up,  and 
unlocking  the  door  opened  it  so  suddenly  that  the 
customer  pitched  forward  into  the  room. 

"Poison !"  he  gasped  as  he  lurched  toward  the 
nearest  chair,  and  then,  as  he  sank  into  it,  he  re- 

[175] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

peated  the  word  in  a  weary,  almost  confidential 
whisper. 

Mr.  Hunker  turned  to  the  gas-jet  without 
glancing  at  the  speaker,  carefully  lowered  it  again, 
and  locking  the  door  mechanically  tried  the 
handle. 

"What  sort  of  poison?"  he  inquired  over  his 
shoulder — his  voice  sounding  far  away,  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  something  else. 

"Any  kind!" 

"Any  kind?' 

The  night  clerk  repeated  the  words  in  a  puz 
zled,  absent-minded  way  and  turned  toward  the 
customer  with  his  first  indication  of  interest. 

"A  peculiar  case,"  he  observed  reflectively,  "re 
quiring  a  universal  antidote." 

The  man  in  the  chair  made  no  reply  and  Jared 
moved  to  the  counter  and  leaned  against  it,  lan 
guidly  studying  the  strange  intruder. 

"I  see,"  he  continued  meditatively  after  a 
pause,  "you  haven't  taken  poison — you  want  to 
buy  it.  For  rats,  perhaps?" 

"For  a  rat  baited  by  fortune  and  trapped  by 
fate!" 

"Ah!" 

Mr.  Hunker  smoothed  back  his  yellow  hair  as 

[176] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

he  uttered  the  exclamation  and  his  head  nodded 
approvingly. 

"Baited  by  fortune  and  trapped  by  fate,"  he 
quoted  dreamily  as  though  speaking  to  himself. 
"Good — very  good — excellent.  I  might  have  said 
'baited  by  fame'  myself,  but  the  other  was  well 
turned  and  doubtless  fits  the  case.  So  you  want 
to  die?"  he  continued,  directly  addressing  the 
stranger  in  the  chair. 

"You've  guessed  it,  good  drug-man.  But  don't 
stand  there  muttering  in  your  sleep  about  it !  Get 
me  something.  Anything  quick  and  sure  will 
do." 

Mr.  Hunker  drew  himself  to  his  full  height, 
and  wrapping  his  dressing-gown  tightly  about  his 
body,  glared  angrily  at  the  speaker,  who  threw  a 
leg  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  turned  away  un 
mindful  of  any  offense. 

"Good  drug-man!"  Mr.  Hunker's  eyes  blazed 
resentment  at  the  figure  in  the  chair.  Who  was 
this  impudent  fellow  who  presumed  to  patronize 
him*?  It  was  preposterous  enough  that  he  should 
have  been  interrupted  in  work  which  would  some 
day  liberate  him  and  force  the  world  of  letters 
and  the  world  at  large  to  recognize  his  genius. 
But  to  be  insulted  by  an  insolent  night  prowler 
was  intolerable.  He  should  not  escape  chastise- 

[177] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

ment.  "Good  drug-man"  indeed!  The  irritat 
ing  words  infuriated  the  night  clerk  as  he  glow 
ered  at  his  impassive  victim.  How  could  he  best 
enforce  a  much  needed  lesson  and  avenge  his  dig 
nity?  Physically  he  was  no  match  for  the  offend 
er.  But  even  if  he  could  bodily  eject  him,  the 
result  would  be  unsatisfactory.  The  fellow  had 
a  mind — his  phrase  about  'fortune  and  fate' 
showed  that.  He  must  be  mentally  humbled  and 
made  to  regret  his  attempted  superiority.  He 
must  learn  what  manner  of  man  he  had  presumed 
to  patronize.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Hunker  opened  his  lips,  but  paused  in 
stinctively  and  continued  his  scrutiny  of  the 
visitor.  The  man  was  young — scarcely  older  than 
Jared  himself;  his  haggard  face  was  handsome 
despite  its  disfiguring  marks  of  dissipation,  and 
his  general  appearance  was  still  refined  and  gentle. 
He  was  carelessly  dressed — almost  shabbily.  But 
there  was  something  in  the  very  recklessness  of 
his  attitude  which  reinforced  his  tone  of  supe 
riority  and  supported  it — something  which  dom 
inated  the  little  night  clerk  and  made  him  hesitate 
with  a  withering  sense  of  inferiority. 

"Well?' 

The  visitor  turned  impatiently  toward  the  shop 
man,  but  his  glance  of  imperious  inquiry  changed 

[178] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

to  a  smile  of  puzzled  amusement  as  he  noted  Mr. 
Hunker's  expression  of  lofty  dignity. 

"Well?'  he  repeated  sharply.  "What  are  we 
waiting  for4?" 

It  was  now  or  never.  Yet  the  right  word 
would  not  come  to  Jared's  tongue.  In  another 
moment  the  opportunity  for  crushing  this  insolent 
intruder  would  be  gone.  He  inwardly  prayed  for 
inspiration,  and  as  he  did  so  an  idea  gradually 
began  to  shape  itself. 

"Are  you  a  physician  or  a  chemist?'  he  inquired, 
raising  his  colorless  eyebrows. 

The  young  man  stared  blankly  at  his  ques 
tioner. 

"Am  I  a  physician  or  a  chemist?"  he  repeated 
wonderingly.  "No.  If  I  were  I  might  be  con 
tent  to  live." 

The  answer  ended  in  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  die?' 

"Because" — the  speaker  paused,  laughing  bit 
terly  to  himself — "Why,  because  I  want  to  do 
something  great,"  he  went  on  mockingly,  "and  it 
is  great  to  do  that  'which  shackles  accident  and 
bolts  up  change.'  No  less  a  man  than  Shake 
speare  compounded  that  prescription  for  immor 
tality — good  drug-man." 

[179] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

Mr.  Hunker  winced,  but  he  checked  the  oath 
which  rose  to  his  lips. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  die?"  he  repeated  haugh 
tily. 

The  customer  looked  at  his  questioner  frown- 
ingly. 

"Isn't  my  reason  good  enough?"  he  demanded. 
"No,  of  course  it  isn't,"  he  continued.  "You're  a 
druggist — not  a  dreamer — and  you're  entitled  to 
an  answer  you  can  comprehend.  I  want  to  die 
because  I  cannot  sleep,  and  nothing  appeals  to  me 
so  much  as  the  sleep  which  knows  no  waking. 
Hand  out  the  magic,  balm,  kind  ^Esculapius." 

Mr.  Hunker  folded  his  dressing-gown  more 
tightly  about  him,  as  though  preparing  for  a 
spring. 

"There  is  a  certain  risk  for  both  of  us  in  com 
plying  with  your  orders,"  he  observed,  with  deadly 
calmness.  "For  you  as  well  as  me." 

"Risk?"  laughed  the  young  man.  "What  risk 
can  there  be  for  me  ?  The  'perchance'  of  dreams  ? 
I'll  stake  my  hazard  on  the  die — and  dead  folks 
tell  no  tales,  good  drug-man." 

"Then  help  yourself !"  Mr.  Hunker  blazed  the 
words  over  his  shoulder  as  he  turned  on  his  heel. 
"The  shelves  are  full  of  poison  and — and  other 
things,"  he  added  meaningly. 

[180] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

The  customer  swung  himself  about  in  his  chair. 

"Hold  on !"  he  protested,  rising.  "This  won't 
do,  you  know.  I  can't  tell  one  drug  from  another, 
and  I  might  take  a  slow  poison  instead  of  a  quick 
one,  or " 

"You  might  draw  an  emetic.  Quite  so.  Well, 
nothing  venture,  nothing  win.  Wait  on  yourself, 
my  supercilious  wreck,  and  good  morrow — or 
good-bye." 

The  door  closed  with  a  triumphant  bang,  leav 
ing  the  customer  staring  hopelessly  at  the  crowded 
shelves.  For  some  moments  he  remained  stand 
ing  in  the  same  position.  Then  he  slowly  crossed 
the  shop,  passed  behind  the  counter  and  began  an 
examination  of  the  jars  and  bottles,  peering 
closely  at  the  abbreviated  Latin  names.  Now  and 
again  he  took  down  a  bottle,  removed  the  stopper 
and  sniffed  at  the  contents;  but  the  labels  were 
confusing  or  wholly  inscrutable,  and  he  hesitated 
to  put'  his  conclusions  to  the  test.  A  mistake  en 
tailed  ludicrous  possibilities,  too  humiliating  to 
admit  of  risk.  There  was  nothing  dignified  in  a 
cramp — something  laughable  about  a  stomach- 
pump.  Even  if  he  recognized  laudanum  or  some 
grateful  sleeping  draught,  he  might  render  it  in 
effective  by  taking  the  wrong  quantity,  and  the 
next  dose  he  tried  might  prove  an  antidote  or  an 

[181] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

emetic.  The  situation  was  comic — ridiculously 
impossible,  and  the  would-be  suicide  accepted  it 
with  a  sobering  laugh  as  he  stood  staring  at  the 
shelves.  He  had  placed  himself  in  an  absurd 
position — so  absurd  that  a  conceited,  underbred 
clerk  had  taken  advantage  of  it  and  made  him 
recognize  his  own  folly.  By  Jove,  he  had  under 
estimated  the  little  druggist!  Worse — he  had 
wantonly  insulted  him.  To  plan  suicide  was  a 
foolish  weakness,  but  to  act  like  a  snobbish  cad 
was  a  crime  in  a  gentleman.  He  must  have  been 
drinking  pretty  heavily  to  have  so  far  forgotten 
himself.  There  had  been  a  delicious  humor  in  the 
little  chap's  handling  of  the  situation  and  a  really 
masterful  recognition  of  climacteric  values.  He 
was  entitled  to  instant  and  complete  reparation 
for  the  contemptuous  treatment  he  had  received! 
And  he  should  have  it  before  the  offender  lost  all 
touch  with  humor  and  good-breeding ! 

The  young  man  turned  impulsively  to  the  rear 
of  the  shop,  knocked  at  the  door,  through  which 
the  night  clerk  had  made  his  triumphant  exit,  and, 
receiving  an  inarticulate  answer,  turned  the  handle 
and  passed  into  the  back  room. 

Mr.  Hunker  sat  at  his  table,  a  green-shaded 
student-lamp  beside  his  elbow,  his  pencil  moving 
rapidly  over  a  yellow  pad  and  his  attitude  in- 

[182] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

dicating  complete  preoccupation.  The  visitor  en 
tered  quietly,  and,  taking  a  chair  near  the  pre 
scription-table  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  sat 
down  and  silently  watched  the  worker.  For  some 
moments  there  was  no  sound  save  the  purr  of  pen 
cil  on  paper,  and  then  the  night  clerk  paused, 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  slowly  turned  to  the 
intruder. 

"Aren't  you  dead  yet?"  he  inquired  disdain 
fully. 

"Not  yet,"  was  the  smiling  answer.  "I've  come 
to  tell  you  that  you've  scored  and  scored  neatly. 
'You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga  Din,'  and 
that's  not  much  of  a  compliment  either.  It  was 
keen  of  you  to  give  me  the  freedom  of  your  poison- 
arsenal,  and  though  I'm  not  overfond  of  life,  I'm 
glad  I've  lived  long  enough  to  tell  you  so." 

The  visitor  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  But 
Mr.  Hunker  merely  tipped  back  his  chair  and 
nodded. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you'd  come  to  much  harm," 
he  observed  coolly.  "There's  a  special  Providence 
which  looks  after  your  sort." 

"After  drunkards,  you  mean?  Yes,  I  know. 
But  it  wasn't  that.  I  was  just  afraid  to  take 
chances." 

"Tail  end  of  a  spree,  I  suppose?" 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

"No.    I  tried  to  get  dead  drunk — that's  all." 

"What  for?" 

"To  find  rest.  I  haven't  slept  for  a  week.  But 
the  rum  merely  muddled  and  weakened  me  as  the 
sleeping-powders  did.  I'm  achingly  wide-awake 
now,  but  quite  sober.  I  don't  know  why  I  am 
wasting  your  time  telling  you  all  this,"  he  broke 
off  suddenly.  "I  merely  wanted  to  let  you  know 
how  well  you'd  scored.  Good  night." 

The  speaker  moved  unsteadily  toward  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you*?" 

Mr.  Hunker  growled  out  the  words  perfunc 
torily,  but  the  visitor  paused. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Nerves — overwork,  I  suppose," 
he  answered. 

"Overwork  eh?    What  sort  of  work?' 

"Critical." 

"Critical?"  Mr.  Hunker  swung  his  chair  toward 
the  door  and  gazed  with  astonishment  at  the  sick 
man  swaying  against  it.  "What  kind  of  a  critic 
are  you?"  he  demanded. 

"A  mere  literary  hack.  Now  you  know  why 
I've  so  little  use  for  life." 

The  young  man  smiled  faintly  as  he  steadied 
himself  with  a  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"On  the  contrary  I  consider  your  profession 
most — most  interesting."  There  was  an  uncon- 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

scious  note  of  deference  in  Mr.  Hunker's  tone. 
"You  see,  I  do  a  little  in  that  line  myself,"  he 
continued. 

"What!  You  a  critic  and  live  in  a  perfect 
treasury  of  relief?" 

The  visitor  pointed  toward  the  shop  and 
laughed  incredulously. 

"I  am  not  a  critic,"  Mr.  Hunker  responded, 
stiffly.  "But  I  am  of  the  craft,  sir — the  creative 
side  of  the  profession." 

The  young  man  caught  himself  smiling  at  the 
pompous  speech,  and  instantly  repressed  an  in 
clination  to  laugh. 

"You  write?"  he  inquired  gravely. 

"A  little — occasionally." 

"I  sympathize  with  you.  Once  upon  a  time  I 
wrote  myself.  You  contribute  to  the  magazines, 
I  suppose?" 

"Sometimes.    Won't  you  sit  down,  sir?" 

The  critic  lurched  toward  the  nearest  chair, 
vaguely  noting  the  deferential  tone,  and  Mr. 
Hunker,  complacently  smoothing  back  his  yellow 
hair,  settled  down  to  sun  himself  in  the  compan 
ionship  of  a  man  who  stood,  as  it  were,  within 
the  portals  of  fame. 

"With  what  periodical  are  you  associated?"  he 
inquired  fraternally. 

[185] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

"I'm  one  of  Copperth wait's  people,"  was  the 
weary  answer. 

"An  excellent  magazine,  sir — most  excellent. 
I — er — "  The  critic  noted  the  hungry  look  in  his 
host's  face  and  strove  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"You  ought  to  send  them  something,"  he  ven 
tured. 

Mr.  Hunker  beamed. 

"You  see,  I  have  so  little  time,"  he  began,  and 
then  paused  in  sheer  embarrassment. 

"You  do  most  of  your  writing  at  night — like 
this*?"  the  critic  indicated  the  table  and  its  papers. 

"I  do  my  creative  work  between  twelve  and 
three;  my  polishing  between  three  and  six,"  Mr. 
Hunker  vouchsafed  confidentially. 

The  guest  groaned  in  spirit. 

"Your  devotion  does  you  credit,"  he  com 
mented  gravely.  "And  I'm  sure  your  work  is 
good,"  he  added  weakly. 

Mr.  Hunker  glanced  eagerly  at  the  speaker, 
started  to  say  something  and  then  paused  awk 
wardly. 

"The  artist  is  seldom  a  good  judge  of  his  own 
creations,"  he  began,  striving  to  put  indifference 
into  his  tone.  "But — but  I've  a  little  something 
here  which,  if  you'd  like,  I'll  read  to  you"  he 
added  in  a  burst  of  desperate  longing. 

[186] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

The  critic  bowed  his  head  submissively.  Had 
he  not  insulted  this  Philistine*?  Ought  he  not 
to  welcome  any  opportunity  to  make  the  repara 
tion  of  a  gentleman? 

"By  all  means  let  me  hear  it,"  he  assented,  with 
a  gallant  effort  at  cordiality. 

For  a  moment  Jared  Hunker  could  scarcely  be 
lieve  his  ears.  For  years  he  had  dreamed  of  the 
day  when  he  would  be  sought  by  the  editors  and 
asked  to  give  a  reading  from  his  works.  Many  a 
time  he  had  pictured  the  scene  to  himself — even 
practising  a  pose  and  rehearsing  his  replies  against 
the  hour  when  fame  should  find  him.  But  he 
could  not  recall  one  of  the  phrases  he  had  treas 
ured  for  the  occasion.  His  hands  trembled  as 
he  lifted  the  manuscript  from  his  table  drawer 
and  adjusted  the  lamp- wick  to  the  proper  flame. 
Then,  with  a  glance  at  his  auditor,  he  began  to 
read  in  a  voice  which  shook  with  excitement  at 
first,  but  grew  steadier  as  he  proceeded. 

The  attention  of  the  critic  encouraged  Mr. 
Hunker,  but  he  paused  perceptibly  at  the  end  of 
the  first  chapter  before  accepting  a  silent  invita 
tion,  to  continue.  Then  he  instinctively  recog 
nized  that  the  effect  of  the  second  scene  would 
be  lost  without  the  third,  and  he  read  the  two  as 
one  without  a  glance  at  his  impassive  auditor. 


'THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

Never  had  his  words  seemed  so  nicely  chosen; 
never  had  the  pages  read  with  such  smoothness — 
the  restful  quiet  of  the  room  affording  a  perfect 
atmosphere.  It  was  impossible  to  stop  at  the 
fourth  chapter,  and  the  author  hurried  on  with 
only  a  fleeting  glance  at  his  listener.  The  fifth 
chapter  was,  however,  his  most  brilliant,  and  Mr. 
Hunker  plunged  into  it  without  so  much  as  an 
upward  glance,  fearing  some  interrupting  question 
or  comment  which  would  spoil  the  whole  effect. 
But  this  danger  behind  him,  another  threatened 
and  urged  him  on.  What  if  it  should  be  suspect 
ed  that  he  could  not  sustain,  in  the  final  chapters, 
the  high  level  he  had  attempted  in  those  already 
heard?  As  long  as  he  held  the  attention  of  his 
critic  it  was  superfluous  to  ask  permission  to  con 
tinue.  .  .  . 

The  reading  proceeded  on  its  even  course, 
swelled  to  its  climax  and  came  to  a  close  with 
beads  of  perspiration  glistening  on  the  reader's 
brow. 

The  author  laid  his  manuscript  aside  and 
glanced  expectantly  at  his  critical  auditor;  but 
the  man  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  Mr.  Hunker 
rose  and,  lifting  the  lamp,  peered  at  his  haggard 
visitor.  The  critic's  eyes  were  closed,  but  the 

[188] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

sound  of  his  breathing  was  plainly  audible.  The 
sufferer  from  insomnia  had  found  a  cure. 

Mr.  Hunker  flushed  angrily  as  he  glared  into 
the  sleeper's  worn  and  tired  face,  and  his  wrath 
ful  expression  turned  to  a  look  of  malicious  hatred. 
Then  he  swiftly  tiptoed  across  the  room,  filled  a 
syringe  with  ice  water  and  deliberately  squirted 
a  stream  straight  between  the  slumberer's  eyes. 

The  man  awoke  with  a  start,  stared  wildly 
about  him  for  a  moment,  and,  with  a  swift  glance 
at  the  syringe  in  Hunker's  hand,  brushed  the 
dripping  water  from  his  coat  and  rose  unsteadily. 

"Your  manuscript  has  unusual  merits,  sir — 
very  unusual,"  he  observed  gravely  after  a  slight 
pause.  "I  answer  for — for  its  acceptance  if  you 
care  to  send  it  to  our  place " 

"But  you  slept  while  I  read  it!"  Jared  blurted 
indignantly.  "Did  you  hear  a  single  word?"  he 
demanded  in  a  conflict  of  resentment  and  hope. 

"We  do  not  usually  accept  manuscripts  with 
out  a  hearing,"  answered  the  critic  coldly.  "I 
haven't  slept  for  days,"  he  went  on  quietly,  "but 
if  I  ever  do  sleep  again  it  will  not  be  for  minutes 
but  for  months.  Unless  some  one  should  be  brutal 
cad  enough  to  wake  me  and  I  know  a  gentleman 
when  I  see  him,  even  if  I  don't  always  act  like 
one  myself." 

[189] 


THE  WEAPONS  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 

The  calm,  flat  tone  of  statement  was  defensive. 

"Your  manuscript  is,  as  I  say,  unusual,"  he 
continued.  "You  will  have  our  check  for  it  to 
morrow  if  you  send  it  early  in  the  day.  Here  is 
my  card.  Good-night !" 

Mr.  Hunker  followed  the  speaker  into  the  shop, 
vainly  striving  for  ian  adequate  reply,  but  he 
reached  the  entrance  without  uttering  a  word  and 
simply  bowed  his  visitor  out. 

Then  he  mechanically  closed  the  door,  and, 
pressing  his  face  against  the  glass  panel,  followed 
the  retreating  figure  into  the  darkness.  When 
the  light  of  dawn  streaked  through  the  glass  it 
found  him  still  standing  there,  wondering  just 
what  was  meant  by  "the  weapons  of  a  gentle 
man,"  and  why,  in  his  hour  of  triumph  he  failed 
to  feel  the  elation  of  a  victor. 


fiQo] 


XIII 
PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

SOME  ONE  discovered  a  few  centuries  or 
aeons  ago  that  our  virtues  and  vices  are 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  allied.  Fru 
gality  is  said  to  be  akin  to  meanness,  firmness  to 
obstinacy,  self-reliance  to  conceit,  courage  to  bru 
tality  and  even  fear.  Those  who  claim  infalli 
bility  in  coping  with  such  nice  distinctions,  how 
ever,  are  apt  to  have  their  confidence  disturbed, 
and  it  is  with  the  utmost  deference  to  the  opinion 
of  others  that  I  express  mine  concerning  Pewee. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  have  sounded  his  depths  of 
feeling  or  solved  the  secret  of  his  soul.  I  merely 
submit  my  conclusions  for  what  they  are  worth. 

I  first  observed  him  on  the  journey  to  the 
Jumping-Off  Place,  where  I  was  to  be  marooned 
for  a  few  midsummer  days.  The  business-like, 
right-side-up  method  in  which  he  carried  the  baby 
into  the  car  would  have  attracted  any  one's  at 
tention,  and  the  pudgy  infant  sucking  its  thumb 
was  so  ridiculously  like  him,  as  it  stared  at  me 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

over  his  shoulder,  that  I  felt  instinctively  sorry 
for  the  brat.  There  was  nothing  childish,  how 
ever,  in  the  words  or  actions  of  its  sire.  His  in 
fantile  features,  miniature,  curly  side-whiskers, 
diminutive  body  and  thin  neck,  were  utterly  de 
ceptive.  The  fellow  was  a  born  commander,  an 
organizing  force,  an  executive  genius,  a  domestic 
Czar. 

A  large  complacent  woman,  with  the  figure  and 
intelligence  of  an  overfed  setter,  followed  him 
into  the  car.  With  a  sweep  of  her  arm  she  could 
have  felled  him  to  the  floor;  with  the  turn  of  her 
wrist  she  could  have  wrung  his  scrawny  neck,  but 
he  dominated  her  with  a  power  which  mocked 
mere  brute  strength,  and  she  awaited  his  com 
mands  with  a  foolish  smile  of  wondering  admira 
tion,  waddling  contentedly  in  any  direction  he  or 
dained.  The  negress  who  trailed  along  in  the  ca 
pacity  of  nurse  was,  however,  plainly  controlled 
by  fear.  She  positively  chattered  every  time  her 
employer  opened  his  lips,  and  under  his  glance  her 
wildly  fluttering  lids  disclosed  only  the  whites  of 
her  eyes.  I  assumed  that  this  terrified  African 
was  the  regular  attendant  of  the  child,  but  she  was 
manifestly  under  waiting  orders  throughout  the 
entire  trip.  Pewee — I  decided  that  must  be  his 

[192] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

name — obviously  brooked  no  interference  in  the 
nursery,  and  he  certainly  knew  his  business. 

He  was  thorough,  too — one  had  to  admit  it. 
He  felt  the  infant's  feet,  he  sampled  its  milk,  he 
superintended  the  heating  of  its  feeding  bottle  and 
he  investigated  its  raiment  with  a  completeness 
that  was  only  saved  from  indecency  by  his  profes 
sional  touch.  Even  when  the  wobbly  atom  was 
rocked  into  unconsciousness  by  the  negress  and  lay 
motionless  on  her  lap,  he  did  not  relax  his  vigi 
lance.  With  knit  brows,  jaw  firmly  set,  lower 
lip  protruded,  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair 
and  finger  tips  united  he  sat  watching  over  his 
young  as  though  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  upon 
him,  and  he  was  conscious  of  embodying  in  his, 
small  person  all  the  solemnity  and  responsibility 
of  Parenthood.  Gazing  at  him  one  felt  like  a 
trifler  in  the  presence  of  a  World-Builder. 

The  whole  family  was  well  cared  for  on  that 
trip.  I  can  certify  to  that.  Its  every  wish  was 
anticipated,  and  every  emergency  had  apparently 
been  foreseen.  At  the  slightest  movement  on  the 
part  of  the  sleeping  infant,  Pewee  was  instantly 
on  the  alert;  anxious,  thoughtful,  inexorable — 
terrible.  Every  time  the  baby  manifested  signs 
of  waking  the  negress  wriggled  to  the  edge  of  her 
chair,  and  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  employer, 

[193] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

swung  her  knees  from  side  to  side  with  a  sicken 
ing,  pendulum-like  motion,  until  the  child  appar 
ently  succumbed.  The  treatment  seemed  inhu 
man  to  the  inexperienced  but  it  was  certainly 
effective.  Not  once  during  all  the  tiresome  jour 
ney  did  that  baby  utter  a  sound.  But  had  it 
started  howling  Pewee  would  doubtless  have  in 
stantly  calmed  the  storm. 

At  the  Jumping-Off  Place  I  observed  Pewee 
marshalling  his  forces,  so  I  was  not  surprised,  on 
looking  from  my  window  the  next  morning,  to 
discover  the  collapsible  baby  carriage  I  had  ob 
served  among  his  possessions,  standing  on  what 
passed  for  a  lawn  in  front  of  the  inn  where  all 
the  summer  residents  stay  for  want  of  a  choice. 
The  baby  was  apparently  taking  its  dejeuner,  for 
the  glitter  of  a  glass  bottle  protruded  from  the 
edge  of  the  carefully  adjusted  carriage  hood  and 
I  judged  that  the  negress  must  be  in  the  immediate 
vicinity.  Curious  to  see  if  she  looked  more  human 
when  relieved  of  Pewee's  espionage  I  stepped 
to  the  window,  as  I  adjusted  my  collar,  and 
glanced  down  at  the  steps  of  the  piazza.  There 
sat  Pewee-of-the-furrowed-brow  mounting  guard 
with  the  expression  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena 
"gazing  out  at  the  sad  and  solemn  sea."  His  cos 
tume,  however,  was  more  suggestive  of  a  naval 

[194] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

than  a  military  hero,  for  on  his  sparse  locks 
perched  a  blue-black  yachting  cap,  half  a  size  too 
large,  and  his  spindle  legs  were  encased  in  white 
duck  trousers.  But  those  nautical  effects  were 
somewhat  marred  by  cloth-top,  dummy-button 
boots,  a  black  cutaway  coat,  a  stiff  shirt  and  a 
white  lawn  tie.  I  was  still  admiring  this  delight 
fully  varied  costume  when  the  little  man  suddenly 
rose  and  stood  trembling  with  either  rage  or  fear, 
but  with  determination  depicted  in  every  line  of 
his  pasty  countenance.  Then  he  darted  forward 
and  flew,  rather  than  ran,  toward  the  baby  car 
riage.  I  swung  about  as  he  shot  by  and  one  glance 
disclosed  the  cause  of  his  flight. 

There,  close  beside  the  infant  Pewee,  stood 
Ajax,  an  enormous  ram,  whose  acquaintance  I  had 
formed  on  previous  visits  to  the  hostelry.  Ajax 
was  a  household  pet  and  the  mildest  old  sinner 
that  ever  nibbled  grass,  but  his  appearance  was 
certainly  formidable.  One  blow  of  his  horns 
could  undoubtedly  have  shivered  the  collapsible 
chariot  to  splinters,  and  even  at  that  moment  his 
massive  head  was  toying  with  the  hood  shading 
the  sleeping  babe.  I  opened  the  window  and 
shouted  a  reassurance  to  Pewee.  But  my  words 
were  lost  upon  the  little  gamecock!  Like  an 
avenging  fury  he  flew  to  the  rescue,  and  falling 

[195] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

upon  Ajax,  he  smote  him  upon  the  thigh  and 
flank.  Wholly  unprepared  for  this  spirited  on 
slaught  the  animal  backed  briskly  away  and  before 
it  had  time  to  recover  from  its  astonishment  Pe- 
wee  clutched  its  horns  with  his  puny  hands,  inter 
posing  his  feeble  person  between  it  and  his  de 
fenseless  young. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause  and  then  began 
a  conflict  which  would  have  crowded  the  arena  of 
Rome  and  thrilled  its  brutal  audiences  to  fiercest 
joy.  Back,  foot  by  foot,  the  little  man  pushed  his 
ponderous  adversary,  and  desperate  indeed  must 
have  been  the  exertion  that  caused  the  heavy 
headed  animal  to  yield.  Certainly  by  the  time  he 
had  gained  thirty  yards  Pewee  showed  unmistak 
able  signs  of  distress.  His  cap  was  gone,  his 
collar  was  wilted,  his  face  was  purple,  and  his 
whole  body  was  trembling  under  the  strain.  Yet 
he  never  faltered,  and  for  five,  ten,  even  fifteen 
yards  further  he  forced  the  fighting.  Then  he 
paused  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  loosening  his 
grip,  started  toward  the  still-sleeping  child.  But 
the  ram  ambled  forward,  and  fearing  to  lose  all 
he  had  gained,  the  little  man  once  more  grappled 
with  the  foe,  and  the  gladiatorial  struggle  was 
renewed.  Back,  foot  by  foot  and  inch  by  inch, 
that  diminutive  Hercules  drove  the  enemy.  Again 

[196] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

and  again  he  fell  to  his  knees,  the  wet  grass  stain 
ing  his  white  trousers  and  changing  the  color  of 
his  cloth-topped  boots,  but  he  stuck  gamely  to 
his  desperate  work  and  never  once  lost  ground. 
Fully  fifty  yards  were  covered  in  the  second  en 
counter,  but  Pewee's  strength  was  ebbing  fast  and 
the  end  was  rapidly  approaching.  At  last  the 
critical  moment  came  and  with  a  final  burst  of 
energy  he  gained  another  five  yards,  and  then  re 
laxing  his  hold,  turned  and  fled  toward  the  baby 
carriage.  On  came  the  ram  and  Pewee  stumbled, 
pitching  headlong  on  the  grass.  But  in  an  in 
stant  he  was  up  again,  and  snatching  the  sleeping 
infant  from  its  nest,  sped  with  it  safely  to  the 
house. 

I  was  still  standing  in  front  of  the  window 
surveying  the  field  of  battle  when  I  heard  a  pat 
ter  of  footsteps  passing  my  door  and,  opening  it, 
I  caught  sight  of  Margaret,  the  little  five  year 
old  daughter  of  mine  host,  j.ust  turning  the  corner 
of  the  stairs. 

"Margaret,"  I  called  out  to  her.  "Run  down 
and  look  after  old  Ajax.  He's  nosing  that  baby's 
carriage  for  the  milk  bottle." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  wild  clatter  down  the 
stairs,  but  by  the  time  I  reached  the  window  again 
I  saw  my  warning  had  come  too  late.  Ajax  had 

[197] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

located  the  treasure  and  was  leisurely  absorbing 
its  contents  with  shameless  relish.  It  was  only  for 
a  moment,  however,  that  he  was  permitted  to  in 
dulge  himself  in  peace.  Out  from  the  house 
rushed  the  avenging  Margaret  and,  mercilessly 
batting  the  offender  with  her  big  rag  doll,  she  put 
him  to  flight  trailing  the  bottle  behind  him,  its 
tube  gripped  firmly  in  his  mouth !  But  even  this 
consolation  for  so  ignominious  a  retreat  was  de 
nied  him,  for  the  pursuer  snatched  up  the  glass 
receptacle  as  it  slid  over  the  grass  and  in  the 
struggle  for  possession  which  ensued,  the  tube 
parted  and  Ajax's  share  of  the  prize  was  a  tantal 
izing  memory  of  the  past. 


"That's  the  worst  of  bottle-fed  rams,"  I  inno 
cently  remarked  to  Pewee,  as  I  joined  him  at  the 
front  door  where  Margaret  was  displaying  the 
damaged  trophy  of  her  chase.  "They  never  for 
get." 

Pewee's  face  bore  the  absorbed  expression  of 
the  resourceful  man  in  the  presence  of  disaster. 

"It's  of  no  consequence,  Sir,"  he  responded 
with  pursed  lips  and  judicially  wrinkled  brow. 
"I  am  provided  with  a  duplicate." 

It  was  so  bravely  spoken  I  desisted  from  glanc- 

[198] 


PEWEE— GLADIATOR 

ing  at  the  trampled  yachting  cap  in  the  middle 
distance,  and  refrained  from  noticing  the  grass- 
stained  pantaloons.  I  even  kept  my  eyes  off  his 
face  and  thought  how  pathetic  and  foolish  Ajax 
looked  as  he  stood  staring  at  us  with  the  broken 
tube  still  held  between  his  milk-stained  lips.  It 
was  that  which  made  me  smile.  I  swear  it! 
Pewee  was  a  hero — a  gladiator!  He  didn't  know 
that  ram  as  well  as  I  did. 


[199] 


XIV 
PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

PEREGRINE  PICKLE  was  what  he  said 
his  name  was.  I  did  not  believe  him.  But 
then  I  never  believed  anything  he  told 
me  except  one  story  which  I  submit  for  consider 
ation,  and  that  may  convict  me  of  being  too  credu 
lous,  for  it  was  Peregrine's  manner  of  telling  the 
tale  that  carried  conviction. 

Peregrine  was  a  Knight  of  the  Road.  When  I 
first  encountered  him  he  was  seated  on  a  pile  of 
discarded  ties  near  a  little  railroad  station  in 
Southern  Wyoming,  where  I  happened  to  be  ma 
rooned  for  a  few  hours  as  a  penalty  for  missing 
one  of  the  few  locals  known  to  that  deserted 
region. 

My  attention  was  attracted  to  the  man  by  the 
fact  that  he  appeared  to  be  making  a  fire  on  top 
of  the  lumber  pile;  but  when  I  drew  near  I  dis 
covered  that  his  fire  was  on  the  ground,  well  shel 
tered  by  his  perch,  and  that  he  was  in  the  act  of 
eating  a  meal  which  he  had  prepared  with  a  true 
[200] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

woodsman's  skill.  I  will  not  describe  the  repast 
which  was  served  in  three  tomato  cans  of  generous 
dimensions.  A  fourth  can  was  suspended  from, 
Peregrine's  neck  by  a  greasy  string  and  was,  I 
assume,  used  ordinarily  as  a  portable  drinking 
cup.  On  this  occasion,  however,  it  was  merely  an 
ornament,  for  one  of  his  other  receptacles  con 
tained  hot  coffee.  He  tapped  the  empty  can  to 
show  me  that  he  was  prepared  for  the  unexpected 
guest.  I  declined  his  hospitality  with  many 
thanks,  but  accepted  a  seat  on  his  throne  and  pre 
vailed  upon  him  to  share  some  of  my  cigars  while 
we  talked  of  "religion,  soups  and  war." 

I  say  we  talked,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
Peregrine  who  set  the  conversational  pace  and 
easily  maintained  it  throughout  our  brief  acquaint 
ance.  I  did  not  ask  his  name.  One  does  not  com 
mit  that  indiscretion  with  strangers  in  the  more 
or  less  unsettled  West.  He  volunteered  the  in 
formation  and  I  accepted  it  at  its  face  value, 
vaguely  wondering  if  he  had  ever  heard  of  the 
famous  book  by  whose  alliterative  title  he  chose 
to  be  addressed.  Possibly  he  had  not  only  heard 
of  it,  but  had  read  it,  for  he  displayed  consider 
able  knowledge  of  classic  literature,  and  his  wan 
derings  had  apparently  brought  him  into  close 
touch  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  Thus 
[201] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

I  heard  of  his  association  with  a  camping  party 
of  collegians  in  the  Rockies;  of  his  attendance  at 
various  public  lectures;  of  his  intimacy  with  a 
gang  of  sheep-stealers ;  of  his  friendship  with  a 
band  of  half-breed  Indians;  of  his  activity  in  a 
local  political  campaign  where  bullets  rather  than 
ballots  carried  the  day;  and  of  his  initiation  into 
the  mysteries  of  a  religious  revival  as  practised  by 
certain  Eastern  missionaries  with  motor  car  at 
tachments.  In  all  of  these  more  or  less  adventur 
ous  experiences  Peregrine  invariably  figured  as 
the  hero,  and  I  thought,  as  I  listened  that,  with 
a  little  touch  of  Art,  his  tales  might  have  been 
made  "just  as  good  as  true."  Omar  Khayyam 
says  that  a  "hair  perhaps  divides  the  False  and 
True"  and  sometimes  it  is  merely  the  way  the 
words  are  threaded  together  on  the  hair  that  dis 
tinguishes  literature  from  lies. 

Peregrine,  as  I  have  said,  was  not  convincing. 
I  did  not  believe  he  had  ever  been  a  college  man ; 
I  doubted  his  ascendancy  among  the  Indians  and 
his  potency  in  the  councils  of  desperados;  I  re 
jected  all  his  claims  to  political  brigandage  and 
discounted  everything  he  had  to  say  concerning  his 
championship  of  the  victims  of  the  get-rich-quick 
missionaries.  But  I  really  think  that  he  had,  at 
one  time,  been  in  the  Army,  and  I  will  tell  you 

[202] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

why.  Or  rather  I  will  let  Peregrine  himself  tell 
you  in  his  own  words,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall 
them  after  a  lapse  of  several  years.  It  was  at  the 
close  of  a  wholly  incredible  episode  in  his  alleged 
life  among  the  half-breeds,  that  this  strange  hobo 
referred  to  his  army  experience.  His  stories 
melted  into  one  another  at  the  touch  of  his  imag 
ination  or  his  memory,  as  moving  pictures  dissolve 
and  reappear.  Therefore  the  transition  did  not 
seem  as  abrupt  as  it  may  sound. 

"Them  fellers  claimed  they  wuz  some  ways  re 
lated  to  the  Nez  Perces"  was  the  conclusion  of  his 
Indian  yarn.  "But  they  wuz  a  heap  distant  re 
lations  to  the  real  Nez  Perces  I  hunted  when  I 
wuz  Corporal  of  Troop  B,  15th  Cavalry.  Say, 
wuz  you  ever  in  the  Philippines'?  No?  Why? 
O  jist  because  the  15th  Cavalry  has  been  pro- 
jectin3  around  them  parts  for  the  past  three  or 
four  years,  and  I  wuz  wonderin'  if  old  Colonel 
Calderon  wuz  still  above  the  ground.  He  wuz  a 
fine  old  guy,  wuz  the  Colonel — stiff  on  discipline 
and  sich,  but  all  to  the  good  on  fightin'  Injins, 
same's  I  wuz  meself.  Many's  the  time  he  ses  to 
me,  cEf  you  wuz  as  good  at  fightin'  Red  Eye  as 
you  is  at  fightin5  red  men,  you'd  be  all  right, 
Peregrine  me  boy.' 

"Red  Eye?"  I  repeated  inquiringly. 
[203] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

"Red  Eye  Whisky,"  Peregrine  explained. 
"Kills  at  40  rods  and  is  advertised  to  make  a 
rabbit  spit  in  a  bull  dog's  face — same  as  all  the 
sutlers  sells.  Well,  as  I  wuz  sayin',  the  Colonel 
set  a  heap  o'  store  by  me,  he  did,  and  I  liked  him 
good  enough  when  I  wuzn't  in  the  guard  house, 
which  I  mostly  wuz;  the  Colonel  being  the  devil 
an'  all  on  discipline  for  infractions  of  th'  rules. 
He  warn't  no  easier  on  his  own  boys  tho'  than  he 
wuz  on  th'  troopers,  and  all  of  his  young  uns 
jumped  when  he  give  th'  word  or  they'd  taste  the 
end  of  his  belt  on  their  hinder-lands  right  smart. 
Well,  he  had  one  little  snoozer  that  wuza  terror 
for  sure.  Not  more'n  siven  or  eight,  he  wuz,  but 
for  mischief — My,  O  my!  I  never  seen  the  like 
of  him  in  all  me  life.  Him  and  me  wuz  great 
pals  tho',  by  reason  of  the  stories  I  could  tell  him, 
for  he  wuz  crazy  about  yarns,  and  he'd  sit  and 
listen  with  his  little  eyes  nearly  poppin'  outer  his 
face  and  his  mouth  open  like  a  stranded  trout, 
while  I  gassed  to  him  about  doin's  among  the 
Injins  and  cowboys  and  sich.  I  reckon  it  wuz  on 
account  er  him  I  quit  hittin'  the  booze.  Anyway, 
I  didn't  liquor  up  much  after  him  and  me  wuz 
friends.  Ridin'  and  playin'  together  most  er  the 
day  we  wuz,  and  many's  the  time  he'd  run  to  me 
when  he'd  been  payin'  for  some  devilment,  and 
[204] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

fergit  all  about  his  troubles  in  listenin'  to  my 
yarns.  But  onest  he  went  the  limit  and  some  more 
fer  he  took  the  notion  that  the  bosses  of  the  Squad 
ron  'ud  look  a  heap  sight  better  ef  their  tails  wuz 
cut  like  the  carriage  people  cuts  'em  in  the  East 
and  he  puts  this  proposition  right  up  to  his  old 
man.  But  the  Colonel  jest  naturally  wouldn't 
hear  er  that,  and  wouldn't  allow  that  it  'ud  im 
prove  the  looks  of  the  Squadron  to  any  great  ex 
tent.  How  did  he  know  it  wouldn't?  asks  the 
kid.  Had  he  ever  tried  it4?  No,  the  Colonel  tells 
him  and  he  ain't  never  goin'  to  try  it  neither. 
Well,  the  boy  he  don't  say  nothin',  but  that  same 
day  he  gits  a  big  pair  o'  shears  and,  blame  me,  ef 
he  don't  dock  the  tails  of  all  the  bosses  in  Troop 
B  while  they  wuz  standin'  in  the  stalls!  I  seen 
the  Colonel  when  he  gits  his  first  sight  o'  them 
there  animiles  and  I  knew  that  me  young  friend 
wuz  in  fer  the  hottest  warmin'  he'd  ever  got  to 
date.  So  when  I  runs  acrost  him  in  the  paddock, 
back  of  C  barracks,  I  tips  him  the  wink  to  pull 
his  freight  till  his  Old  Man  gits  a  little  cooler 
under  th'  collar.  I  reckon  I  must  'er  scared  him 
more'n  I  thought  to,  fer  ther  wer'n't  no  yaller 
streak  in  him  and  he  took  his  tannin's  as  good  as 
any  colt  I  ever  see  hand-trained.  But  this  time, 
dang  me,  ef  he  didn't  run  clear  out  onto  the  very 

[205] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

tip  end  o'  Lookout  Point,  a  narrer  ledge  er  rock 
that  stuck  out  over  the  canyon  like  a  flag-pole 
from  a  winder.  I  reckon  there  wer'n't  no  man 
ever  got  where  that  young  un  got  before  that  day, 
fer  the  rock  wuz  too  narrer  fer  a  grown-up  to  walk 
on,  an'  the  drop  from  it  wuz  500  feet  to  the  near 
est  ledge  below.  He'd  got  there  jist  the  same,  but 
he  must  'er  crawled  to  do  it,  fer  when  the  folks 
seen  him  he  wuz  straddlin'  the  very  tip  wid  his 
back  to  what  you  might  call  the  land.  Well, 
there  wuz  a  great  screechin'  and  weepin'  whin  the 
women  folks  see  where  he  had  got  to,  and  the 
Colonel  hisself  wuz  sorter  wobbly  in  his  knees  and 
had  the  shakes  fer  fair.  He  didn't  even  dare  to 
speak  to  th'  kid  fer  fear  of  scarin'  him,  but  tells 
his  mother  to  call  out  gentle  like  and  coax  him 
back  to  land.  Th'  little  cuss  heard  her  all  right. 
But  whin  he  tried  to  edge  back,  he  kinder  got 
twisted  and  that  seemed  to  put  him  wise  to  th' 
fix  he  wuz  in,  fer  he  let  out  a  panicky  screech,  and 
grabbin'  th'  ledge  wid  both  arms,  like  it  wuz  th' 
neck  er  his  pony,  lay  there  swayin'  's  ef  he  wuz 
about  to  lose  his  grip.  Well,  th'  troopers  got 
busy  with  th'  derrick,  and  the  Colonel  and  all  th' 
officers  wuz  speedin'  'em  up  to  beat  th'  band. 
But  I  seen  th'  kid  'ud  never  hold  on  long  'nuf  fer 
'em  to  git  th'  tackle  ready,  lessen  somethin'  wuz 

[206] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

done  right  smart.  So  I  starts  to  crawl  out  to 
where  th'  kid  wuz,  an'  I'm  tellin'  you  that  wuz 
th'  slickest  bit  er  track  fer  a  slow  race  anywheres 
on  this  continent.  I  reckon  I  must  'er  made  about 
an  inch  a  minute  and  when  I  got  near  half  way  I 
felt  sicker  to  my  stomach  than  any  pup  that  ever 
lapped  up  paint.  But  I  kept  a  goin',  talkin'  soft 
like  all  th'  time  ter  th'  kid  till  I  got  within  touch 
er  him.  Thin  I  grabbed  him,  not  real  sudden 
but  kinder  tight,  and  he  give  a  twist  that  near 
sent  th'  two  of  us  into  th'  big  empty  space  below. 
I  knowed  right  thin  that  ef  I  wuz  to  hold  him  till 
they  got  th'  derrick  fer  us,  I'd  gotter  keep  him 
quieter  than  a  cat  before  a  mouse  hole.  'Dave,' 
I  ses — that  wuz  the  young  un's  name — 'Dave,'  I 
ses,  'keep  still  an'  I'll  tell  you  another  story  about 
th'  Injin  that  fooled  up  the  Panther  by  playin'  he 
wuz  dead.'  'I'm  scared !'  he  whimpered.  'So  wuz 
the  Injun,'  I  tells  him.  'An'  he  had  somthin'  to 
be  scared  of,  you  bet  your  padded  pants.'  'Wot 
was  he  scared  of?'  he  ses,  thin-voiced  like.  The 
minit  he  said  that,  I  knowed  I  had  him  ef  I  didn't 
stop  to  breathe.  An'  you  bet  your  neck  I  didn't. 
Gee  willikens!  I  wisht  I  cud  remember  the  yarn 
I  told  that  kid.  Gosh!  but  it  must  'er  bin  some 
story !  But  brand  me  fer  a  liar,  ef  I've  ever  been 
able  to  call  it  ter  mind  from  that  day  on  ter  this ! 

[207] 


PEREGRINE  PICKLE 

Well  anyway,  th'  kid  jist  never  winked  an  eye 
lash  or  turned  a  hair  while  I  wuz  tellin'  it,  and 
when  they  swings  the  derrick  over  us  and  I  stops 
fer  the  lowerin'  of  the  slings,  wot  do  you 
t'ink  th'  little  skeesicks  says?  'Go  on,  Corf  rail" 
he  ses  impatient  like.  'Go  on,  Corporal,  won't 
you?'  Did  I  go  on?  You  bet  your  last  cigar 
I  did  and  I  didn't  stop  neither  whin  I  wuz 
fastenin'  the  belts  to  us.  Some  story — eh  Boss? 
Ain't  it  a  shame  I  plumb  forgot  it?  Maybe  it'd 
put  this  yere  author  Rumyard  Kipling  on  the 
blink.  Eh?" 

"Haven't  you  any  idea  of  what  it  was  about?" 
I  asked. 

"O  I  know  the  idee  all  right  "  he  answered.  "It 
was  some  thin'  like  this " 

But  just  at  that  moment  the  whistle  of  my  train 
sounded  in  the  distance  and  I  never  heard  Pere 
grine's  version  of  his  masterpiece.  And  I  am  glad 
of  it.  That  story  was  never  intended  to  be  "a 
twice-told  tale." 


[208] 


XV 

CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

GRACIOUS— how  you  startled  me !" 
Miss  Bessie  Dean,  poised  for  flight 
on  the  edge  of  a  high  window  seat, 
glanced  with  a  mixture  of  indignation  and  relief 
at  her  chum,  and  then  swung  back  upon  her  lofty 
perch  drawing  up  her  knees  and  patting  her  hair 
pins  into  place  with  a  reassuring  touch.  The  girl 
whose  unexpected  entrance  had  disturbed  the  quiet 
of  the  studio  remained  standing  in  the  door  for  a 
moment,  absent-mindedly  withdrawing  the  pins 
from  her  hat,  and  then  tossing  it  aside,  vaulted 
into  the  unoccupied  corner  of  the  window-seat, 
and  clasping  her  hands  about  her  knees,  gazed 
gloomily  into  the  smiling  eyes  that  questioned  her. 

"Well?" 

Miss  Moran  paused  inquiringly,  but  her  com 
panion  made  no  response. 

"What's  the  matter,  Winifred?     You  look  as 

though " 

[209] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

"My  doll  were  stuffed  with  saw-dust?    Well 


—it  is !" 


"Maybe  it's  breakfast  food." 
"No.     It's  saw-dust,  and  poor  quality  too/' 
"Humph!     As  bad  as  that?    Did  you  get  an 
afternoon  off?" 

"No,  I  took  it,  and  I'm  going  to  take  a  lot 


more." 


"How  will  the  Powers-that-be  like  that?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  I'm  going  to 
resign." 

"Resign!  You're  joking,  Winnie!  Why  I 
thought  you  adored  the  work  and  Mr.  Sargeant 
told  me  that  you  were  the  most  promising  new 
Visitor  the  Allied  Charities  had  on  its  staff.  I 
felt  proud  of  knowing  you." 

The  girl  gave  a  contemptuous  toss  of  her  head 
and  impatiently  flung  her  gloves  on  a  chair. 

"That  was  ages  ago — before  I  understood  the 
game,"  she  exclaimed.  "But  I  know  it  now.  Sci 
entific  philanthropy,  Bess,  is  merely  the  business  of 
gathering  inaccurate  information  concerning  ir 
remediable  conditions.  And  Charity  is  the  catch 
word  which  induces  simple-minded  folk  to  pay 
the  statistician's  bills." 

"Whew!     You  must  be  pretty  bitter  to  have 

[210] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

thought  up  those  definitions.  What's  the 
trouble4?  Out  with  it!" 

"O,  Bess,  it  isn't  any  one  particular  thing!  It's 
the  whole  system.  I  go  out  every  morning  empty- 
handed  to  visit  the  sick  and  the  afflicted  and  I 
return — with  a  full  note  book.  We're  allowed  to 
give  advice — good,  bad  or  indifferent — but  no 
'material  relief  whatever,  and  just  because " 

"Now  we're  coming  to  it.  I  see  it  all.  Just 
because  you  put  your  hand  in  your  own  pocket 
and  gave  money  without  asking  authority  from 
headquarters,  you've  been  criticized  and  feel 
hurt." 

"Hurt  isn't  the  word.  I'm  disgusted!  I  did 
what  I  thought  was  right,  but  since  they  object, 
let  them  get  somebody  else  to  wait  on  their  Bar 
mecide  feasts.  Winifred  Jessup  is  done  with  'ob 
serving  the  poor!' ' 

"Nonsense,  Winnie.  You  know  that  only  the 
most  experienced  Visitors  are  allowed  to  use  their 
discretion  in  distributing  monetary  relief.  They 
must  have  some  system  and " 

"System!  It's  all  system.  Why,  Bess,  the 
whole  work  is  a  mockery.  They  don't  give  money 
to  the  needy  because  it'll  pauperize  them,  and 
they  don't  give  them  work  because  they  haven't 
got  it  to  give.  Do  you  remember  that  fine  old 
[211] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

Mrs.  McCaffrey,  I  told  you  about?  Well,  my 
dear,  she  was  on  the  Work  List  for  two  weeks, 
and  when  her  turn  came  what  do  you  think  they 
offered  her?' 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"A  place  in  the  sewing  room." 

"Well?" 

"Why — she  can't  sew!  They  knew  that.  At 
least  they  ought  to  have  known  it — they  told  me 
they  had  a  complete  record  of  her  case  when  I 
found  her  almost  dead  in  her  pig  pen  of  a  tene 
ment." 

"Well,  what  can  she  do?' 

"Washing." 

"Washing!" 

Miss  Moran  unclasped  her  knees  and  clapped 
her  hands  together  in  delight. 

"Saved — saved!"  she  exclaimed.  "Winnie,  go 
and  fetch  Mrs.  McCaffrey  at  once !" 

Miss  Jessup  stared  at  her  companion  in  as 
tonishment. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say,"  Miss  Moran  re 
sponded  joyfully.  "I  didn't  intend  to  confess," 
she  continued,  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner, 
"but  you  remember  I  boasted,  when  we  took  this 
apartment,  that  I  could  manage  the  housekeep- 
[212] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

ing  without  any  trouble  and  I've  been  ashamed 
to  admit  that  I've  never  been  able  to  get  our 
washing  done  properly.  In  fact  I've  been  at  my 
wits'  end  for  weeks,  and  now  you  appear  in  a 
vision  of  glory  trailing  a  Mrs.  McCaffrey  by  the 
hand !  It's  simply  providential !  Are  you  sure 
she's  used  to  fine  work?  Most  of  our  prettiest 
things  are  in  the  clothes  bag  at  this  moment." 

Miss  Jessup  dropped  down  from  the  window- 
seat  and  began  readjusting  her  hat  before  the 
glass. 

"Mrs.  Me  was  at  the  head  of  a  fancy  laundry 
once,"  she  responded.  "This  will  be  a  godsend 
to  her.  I'll  have  her  here  in  an  hour  or  so.  You 
don't  think  the  people  at  the  Charities  will  repri 
mand  me  too  severely  for  giving  her  this  work, 
do  you?" 

"You  run  along  and  get  some  fresh  air  in  your 
lungs,  and  then  we'll  discuss  philanthropy.  Off 
with  you!" 

It  was  certainly  a  heavy  load  which  Miss  Jes- 
sup's  protege  bore  away  with  her  a  few  hours 
later.  But  she  volunteered  to  complete  her  task 
in  short  order  and  departed  leaving  a  pleasant 
glow  of  gratitude  in  her  wake.  Indeed,  the  fact 
of  having  found  employment  for  the  old  lady 
had  such  an  encouraging  effect  on  Miss  Jessup 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

that  she  returned  to  the  Allied  Charities  with  new 
zest  for  her  duties.  She  had  not,  however,  for 
given  the  Relief  Superintendent  for  his  remarks 
concerning  unauthorized  aid,  and  inwardly  re 
joiced  when  her  critic  delivered  himself  into  her 
hands  a  few  days  later  by  jocularly  observing  that 
they  hadn't  seen  her  friend  Mrs.  McCaffrey  at 
the  office  of  late. 

"No,"  she  responded  quietly.  "I've  given  her 
some  work." 

"Really?    What  sort  of  work?' 

The  question  was  annoyingly  incredulous,  and 
Miss  Jessup  tingled  with  resentment. 

"Washing — the  only  work  she  could  do!"  she 
retorted.  "That's  not  against  the  rules,  is  it?' 

The  young  Superintendent  flushed  under  his 
pretty  questioner's  challenge. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  he  responded  slowly.  "It 
was  very  good  hearted  of  you.  Only — O,  well, 
I  dare  say  it'll  be  all  right." 

The  official  nodded  and  passed  on,  but  there 
was  quite  enough  in  his  tone  to  dampen  Miss 
Jessup's  little  triumph,  and  she  failed  to  report  it 
to  her  chum,  as  she  had  intended  to  do  at  the 
opening  of  the  encounter.  Indeed,  when  the  day 
for  Mrs.  McCaffrey's  reappearance  arrived  she  did 
not  comment  upon  the  fact.  But  before  another 

[214] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

twenty-four  hours  had  passed  Miss  Moran  called 
it  sharply  to  her  attention. 

"O,  Winnie,"  she  remarked  at  breakfast,  "Mrs. 
McCaffrey  should  have  brought  the  work  back 
yesterday — shouldn't  she*?" 

Miss  Jessup  glanced  innocently  at  the  calendar 
hanging  on  the  wall. 

"Why  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  answered.  "Very 
likely  the  dear  old  thing  has  overestimated  her 
strength.  We  gave  her  quite  a  task  you  remem 
ber.  I'll  drop  in  on  her  this  afternoon  and  see 
how  she's  getting  on." 

"I  wish  you  would,  dear,  and  get  her  to  send 
back  what  she's  finished  anyway,  for  we're  due  at 
the  Studio  Dance  to-night,  you  know,  and  neither 
of  us  has  a  thing  to  wear." 

Miss  Jessup  glanced  hastily  at  her  engagement 
book. 

"Gracious!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'd  almost  for 
gotten  that.  I'll  see  to  it  at  once  and  get  her  to 
send  enough  for  our  present  needs  by  this  after 


noon." 


"Good.    Will  you  be  here  for  luncheon*?" 
"Yes,  if  I'm  not  too  much  rushed." 
The  girl  was  already  in  the  hall  as  she  answered 
and  she  hurried  past  the  studio  windows  without 
waving  a  greeting,  as  she  usually  did  on  reaching 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

the  street.  Neither  did  she  return  for  luncheon, 
and  when  four  o'clock  arrived  without  bringing 
the  wash,  Miss  Moran  telephoned  to  advise  her 
of  that  fact.  But  Miss  Jessup,  it  appeared,  had 
not  been  at  the  Allied  Charities  at  all  that  day 
and  nothing  had  been  heard  from  her.  This  was 
somewhat  disquieting,  but  Miss  Moran  fought 
down  her  anxiety  until  the  dinner  hour  had  long 
passed,  when  she  became  seriously  alarmed.  In 
deed,  she  had  about  determined  to  telephone  to 
police  headquarters  when  she  heard  the  key  turn 
in  the  lock,  and  rushing  to  the  door,  discovered 
Miss  Jessup  and  a  messenger  boy  in  the  act  of 
carrying  an  enormous  bundle  into  the  hall. 

"Well,  I've  got  it!"  exclaimed  the  prodigal,  as 
the  door  closed  on  the  diminutive  messenger,  and 
then  without  a  word  of  warning  she  sank  upon  the 
floor  beside  the  paper  bundle  and  burst  into  a  fit 
of  laughter,  ending  in  tears. 

"There,  there,  dear!"  soothed  Miss  Moran. 
"Come  and  get  something  to  eat  before  you  tell 
me  what's  happened.  It's  after  eight,  but  there's 
plenty  of  time  and  we  can  talk  as  we  eat.  I  ex 
pect  you've  had  some  adventures." 

"Adventures !"  Miss  Jessup  gasped.  "Well,  it's 
all  safely  over  now,  thank  goodness !  But  I  tell 

[216] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

you  I  couldn't  live  through  it  again — I  simply 
couldn't!" 

"Well,  you  won't  have  to,  I'm  sure.  Here,  sit 
right  down  at  the  table  and " 

The  girl  interrupted  with  a  protesting  gesture. 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  feel  too  dirty  to  eat. 
Clean  clothes  will  refresh  me  more  than  anything 
else  at  this  moment." 

"I  know  exactly  how  you  feel,"  Miss  Moran 
responded  sympathetically.  "But  don't  stop  to 
dress  now.  We'll  have  dinner  at  once.  .  .  . 
There !  Now  you  feel  better  already,  don't  you*?" 
she  continued  as  she  hovered  beside  Winifred,  so 
licitously  watching  her. 

The  girl  nodded  smilingly  and  pressed  her  com 
panion's  hand  gratefully. 

"I'm  all  right,  dear,"  she  protested.  "If  you 
wait  on  me  any  longer  I  won't  tell  you  a  word  of 
my  adventures." 

"Very  well,"  laughed  Miss  Moran.  "I'll  put 
everything  on  the  table  and  you  can  help  your 
self.  Now  begin  from  the  time  you  rushed  off 
this  morning." 

"I'll  have  to  go  further  back  than  that,''  con 
fessed  Winifred.  "I  suspected  there  was  some 
thing  wrong  with  Mrs.  McCaffrey  several  days 
ago,  but  I'd  been  hoping  against  hope,  and  it 

[217] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

wasn't  until  you  reminded  me  of  to-night's  dance 
that  I  realized  that  I  hadn't  dared  investigate  her. 
That  galvanized  me  into  action,  however,  and  I 
went  straight  to  her  rooms.  There  I  got  my  first 
shock,  for  the  door  was  opened  by  a  strange  wo 
man  who  didn't  speak  much  English  and  knew 
nothing  of  Mrs.  McCaffrey.  You  can  imagine, 
my  dismay.  I  rushed  down  to  the  janitor  and 
questioned  him  with  a  sinking  heart.  'Mrs.  Me' 
had  vacated  the  premises  a  week  ago,  he  informed 
me,  but  suggested  that  she  might  have  left  her 
address  at  the  corner  saloon.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  inquire  there,  so  in  I  marched  and,  Bes 
sie! — I'll  never  say  anything  against  bartenders 
again !  The  one  in  charge  of  that  place  was  more 
courteous  than  lots  of  men  we  know  and  he  took 
no  end  of  trouble.  He  knew  Mrs.  Me  and  had 
given  her  some  of  his  own  washing,  he  said.  He 
not  only  gave  me  her  address,  but  got  a  boy  to 
go  with  me  because,  he  said,  the  neighborhood  she 
lived  in  was  not  fit  for  a  lady  like  me.  And  then 
— oh  dear!  He — he  told  me  his  name  was 
O'Callahan  and  said  he  hoped  we'd  meet  again! 
I  don't  know  what  I  replied,  but  I'm  sure  I 
blushed  like  a  perfect  fool,  and  then  I  hurried 
away  with  my  guide,  who  brought  me  into  a  back 
alley  of — what  do  you  think  ?" 
[218! 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine,  dear." 

"Negro  tenements,  Bessie — the  worst  I've  ever 
seen — with  a  frightful  gorilla  of  a  janitor!  Mrs. 
McCaffrey  was  in,  he  informed  me.  'Yaas,  she 
shorely  was  in,'  but  he  reckoned,  I  couldn't  see 
her. 

"Why  not?"  I  demanded. 

"  'Caze  huh  time  ain't  up,"  he  retorted. 

"Her  time?"  I  repeated  blankly. 

"  'Yaas  m','  he  grinned.  'You  knows  she's  one 
of  dem  silent  boozers  and  dey  gits  behin'  der  do's 
an'  soaks  'emselves  blin'  and  don'  open  till  they's 
sobered  up.' 

"With  this  cheerful  announcement  he  retired 
into  his  den  and  left  me  gasping.  But  I  was  not 
going  to  be  defeated  in  that  way,  so  without 
another  word  I  marched  off  to  the  nearest  police- 
court  intending  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  the 
Magistrate." 

"I  don't  suppose  you've  ever  been  in  a  police 
court.  I  never  had  until  this  morning  and  I  hope 
I'll  never  have  to  enter  another.  It's  the  most 
dreadful  place  imaginable.  I  thought  I  could 
walk  right  in  and  talk  privately  with  the  Judge. 
But  the  room  was  simply  packed  to  suffocation 
and  I  could  barely  squeeze  myself  inside  the  door. 
[219] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

Finally  a  policeman  edged  through  the  crowd  and 
asked  me  what  I  was  up  for." 

"What  you  were  up  for?"  gasped  Miss  Moran. 

"That's  just  what  he  said,  Bessie,  and  you  can 
imagine  my  wrath.  With  a  great  deal  of  dignity, 
I  informed  him  who  I  was  and  what  I  wanted. 
Then  what  was  I  doing  in  the  prisoners'  line? 
he  demanded,  and  I  had  to  give  him  my  name  and 
remain  just  where  I  was  until  he'd  examined  the 
roll  and  made  sure  I  was  telling  the  truth." 

"The  insolent  scoundrel !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Moran.  "Did  you  report  him?" 

"Indeed  I  did  not.  He  was  very  decent  when 
he  understood  the  matter  and  told  me  that  I'd 
better  go  to  the  police  station  and  explain  the  mat 
ter  there.  It  was  then  after  twelve  o'clock,  but  I 
fought  my  way  out  and  marched  to  the  station 
house,  where  the  sergeant  in  charge  heard  my 
story.  He  was  very  polite  and  ordered  an  officer 
to  go  with  me  to  Mrs.  McCaffrey's,  telling  me  that 
if  he  wasn't  successful  in  making  her  surrender  the 
clothes  I  could  return  to  the  court  and  get  a  war 
rant,  or  something  of  that  kind,  later  in  the  day. 
Well,  off  I  went  with  my  policeman,  a  huge,  good 
looking,  shy,  young  Irishman  with  a  captivating 
smile.  But  you  would  have  laughed,  Bessie,  to 
see  the  way  that  awful  janitor  kow-towed  to  him. 
[220] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

He  marched  into  the  place  as  though  he  owned  it 
and,  in  my  enthusiasm  for  his  prowess,  I  remarked, 
as  we  climbed  the  stairs,  that  it  must  be  splendid 
to  be  so  big  and  strong.  'Yes,  m','  he  responded 
gravely.  '  'Tis  convanient  at  times  but  ye'd  find 
it  tough  in  gittin'  pants  to  fit  yer !' ' 

"Winifred!" 

"He  hadn't  the  faintest  suspicion,  my  dear,  that 
he'd  said  anything  out  of  the  way  and  the  next 
moment  he  was  pounding  at  Mrs.  McCaffrey's 
door  with  noise  enough  to  wake  the  dead.  All 
the  other  tenants  came  pouring  into  the  hall  to 
know  what  the  trouble  was,  but  never  an  answer 
ing  sound  reached  us  from  Mrs.  McCaffrey's 
abode.  Finally  I  urged  my  hero  to  break  down 
the  door,  but  he  declared  he  had  no  warrant  for 
that  and  advised  that  we  return  to  the  court. 
Then,  armed  with  the  necessary  paper,  we  started 
once  more  for  the  alley.  This  time  the  black 
desperado  of  a  janitor  met  us  at  the  threshold. 

"  'She's  out,'  he  confided  to  the  officer.  'But 
she's  settin'  right  on  huh  do' way  and  ef  she  spy 
yo'  she'll  bar  de  do'.  Let  huh  go,'  he  continued, 
indicating  me,  'and  kinder  draw  huh  out.' 

"I  saw  the  wisdom  of  this  advice,  and  the  offi 
cer  concurring,  I  stole  swiftly  upstairs  and  con 
fronted  Mrs.  McCaffrey  squatting  on  the  floor  in 

[22!] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

front  of  her  opened  door.  Bessie,  she  was  a  dread 
ful  wreck !  But  she  wasn't  repentant  and  the  only 
response  I  could  get  from  her  was  that  she'd  send 
my  clothes  when  she  got  good  and  ready  and  not 
a  minute  sooner,  and  that  I  was  to  'hold  my  horses' 
and  'keep  my  shirt  on.'  At  this  retort  all  the 
pickaninnies  who  had  circled  about  us  cheered  and 
I  almost  lost  my  temper.  However,  I  managed 
to  control  myself  and  continued  to  reason  gently 
with  her.  But  the  softer  I  talked  the  louder  and 
more  abusive  she  became,  so  I  changed  my  tone 
and  announced  that  if  she  didn't  surrender  our 
things,  then  and  there,  I'd  have  her  arrested.  That 
threat  seemed  to  frighten  her,  and  taking  out  my 
watch,  I  gave  her  just  two  minutes  to  make  up  her 
mind.  She  immediately  began  whimpering  and 
wringing  her  hands,  and  then,  Bess,  the  awful 
thought  suddenly  crossed  my  mind  that  she'd  sold 
our  things  and  couldn't  deliver  them  if  she  wanted 


to." 


Miss  Moran  positively  gasped. 

"O,  Winifred— she  hadn't  done  that,  had  she?" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Well,  she'd  pawned  them.  For  a  moment  she 
denied  it,  and  then  whining  'Only  a  few,  my  dear 
— only  a  few !'  the  whole  truth  came  out.  She'd 
pawned  every  stitch  we'd  given  her.  And,  Bessie, 

[222] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

it  was  our  fault.  She  had  to  live,  and  she  hadn't 
any  money,  and  we  ought  to  have  thought  of  that. 
O,  the  whole  story  was  pitiful !  But  I  was  merci 
less. — Yes,  I  was!  I  demanded  the  pawn  tickets, 
and  when  she  said  she  didn't  know  where  they 
were  I  threatened  her  so  fiercely  that  she  pulled 
herself  to  her  feet,  imploring  me  not  to  be  too  hard 
on  her.  My  only  answer  was  that  she  could  either 
find  those  tickets  or  go  to  jail,  and  for  half  an  hour 
she  raked  her  rubbish  heap  of  a  room  in  a  vain 
endeavor  to  locate  them.  Finally  I  discovered 
them  myself  and  her  delight  was  really  pathetic. 
I  was  so  happy  that  I  gave  her  two  dollars  and 
hurried  away  with  my  big  policeman  to  the  pawn 
shop.  He  told  me  I  needn't  pay  a  cent  to  redeem 
our  property,  as  it  was  stolen,  but  I  knew  it.  was 
all  our  fault  and  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  right 
to  take  advantage  of  the  law.  It  was  a  pretty 
dear  washing,  Bessie,  but  I  redeemed  the  lot  for 
three  dollars.  I  didn't  do  so  badly — did  I?" 

"Badly?" 

Miss  Moran  crossed  to  her  companion,  and 
perching  on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  folded  her  in 
her  arms. 

"You're  a  perfect  trump,  Winnie!  I  don't 
know  how  you  had  the  courage  to  go  through  with 
it.  We'd  have  lost  everything  if  it  hadn't  been 

[223] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

for  you.  Come  and  lie  down  on  the  sofa  now, 
dear,  if  you've  had  enough  dinner.  You  must  be 
tired  out." 

"Indeed,  I'm  not.  What  time  ought  we  to 
begin  to  dress  ?" 

"You're  not  thinking  of  going  to  the  dance 
to-night  after  all  you've  been  through?" 

"I  certainly  am.    Do  I  look  so  terribly  faded  #' 

"You  look  perfectly  sweet.  But  I  was  afraid 
you  wouldn't  feel  up  to  dancing  after  having  been 
on  your  feet  all  day." 

"Nothing  would  rest  me  so  much.  The  mere 
thought  of  those  clean  clothes  is  refreshing.  I'm 
going  to  revel  in  them,  and  don  the  very  prettiest 
I  have." 

"Well,  we  ought  to  get  ready  right  away  if 
we're  going.  Here — toss  me  something  to  cut 
this  string  and  I'll  open  your  treasure  house,"  Miss 
Moran  continued,  as  she  dropped  down  beside  the 
bundle. 

"I  do  hope  Mrs.  Me  was  a  good  laundress!" 
exclaimed  Winifred,  as  she  handed  a  knife  to  her 
companion.  "I'm  almost  afraid  to  have  you 
look." 

"Nonsense!  The  pawnbroker  wouldn't  have 
loaned  three  dollars  on  them  if  they'd  been 
spoiled." 

[224] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

"That's  so.  I  never  thought  of  our  being  guar 
anteed  in  that  way.  You  choose  what  I'm  to 
wear  while  I  begin  to  make  myself  presentable." 

Miss  Jessup  passed  into  her  bedroom  as  she 
spoke,  but  a  cry  of  distress  soon  brought  her  flying 
into  the  studio  again. 

There  on  the  floor  sat  Miss  Moran  holding  at 
arm's  length  a  pair  of  red  underflannels  of  dis 
tinctly  masculine  gender,  and  a  white  shirt 
adorned  with  purple  horseshoes,  while  scattered 
around  her  lay  gigantic  socks,  handkerchiefs  the 
size  of  napkins,  white  waistcoats  and  flannel  shirts 
of  manly  cut,  duck  trousers  and  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  collars  and  cuffs. 

"Winnie !"  she  gasped.  "They've  given  you 
the  wrong  bundle!" 

Miss  Jessup  gazed  at  the  speaker  in  silence  for 
a  moment  and  then  slipped  down  on  the  floor  be 
side  her. 

"Bessie,"  she  murmured,  "it's  the  right  bundle 
but  the  wrong  tickets!  I  discovered  those  tickets 
and  insisted  on  taking  them,  never  dreaming  there 
might  be  others,  and O,  who  do  you  sup 
pose  has  got  our  pretty  things?" 

Miss  Moran  dived  into  the  bundle,  and  pro 
ducing  another  garment,  held  it  triumphantly 
aloft. 

[225] 


CHARITY  SUFFERETH  LONG 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Winnie/'  she  re 
sponded  explosively,  "but  your  friend  the  saloon 
man  said  he  hoped  you'd  meet  again,  didn't  he? 

This  is  certainly  a  bartender's  coat  and My 

dear!    It's  a  romance!    Every  one  of  these  things 
is  marked  'O'Callahan !'  " 


[226] 


XVI 
WAR 

THE  storm  of  battle  which  had  roared  and 
raged  through  Pinesville,  Virginia,  in 
April,  1865,  had  turned  St.  Stephen's 
Church  into  a  field  hospital  and  then  swept  on 
ward,  leaving  the  little  building  dismantled  and 
apparently  forgotten.  In  the  distance  thunderous 
cannonading  still  rattled  the  stained  glass  win 
dows  from  time  to  time,  but  the  shuddering  rever 
berations  merely  intensified  the  silence  of  desola 
tion  that  had  settled  upon  the  countryside.  Not  a 
leaf  stirred  behind  the  gray  shroud  of  vapor  over 
hanging  the  trampled  meadows,  the  birds  had  long 
since  whirled  away  in  terror  and  all  the  voices  of 
the  field  were  stilled,  as  though  nature  itself  had 
been  throttled  or  stunned  in  the  conflict.  On  a 
pole  thrust  from  the  belfry  window  a  yellow 
hospital  flag  sagged  drearily  in  the  breathless  at 
mosphere;  and  tumbled  about  in  the  tiny  church 
yard,  like  uprooted  coffins,  lay  scores  of  wooden 
pews  hastily  torn  from  their  fastenings  and  tossed 

[227] 


WAR 

from  doors  and  windows.  Books,  papers,  bits  of 
clothing,  remnants  of  food,  rubbish  and  wreck  of 
every  kind  littered  the  ground,  and  propped  up 
against  a  headstone  almost  hidden  in  long  grass 
lay  a  stained  and  broken  stretcher.  Between  the 
white  columns  of  the  portico  gaped  the  entrance 
to  the  church,  splintered  fragments  of  the  doors 
still  clinging  to  the  hinges,  and  on  its  threshold 
stood  a  woman,  her  tall,  girlish  figure  sharply  out 
lined  in  the  misty  twilight  against  the  dark  back 
ground.  For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  the  ruin  and 
disorder  about  her  with  an  expression  of  despair, 
which  deepened,  as  her  glance  fell  upon  the  dev 
astated  fields  beyond  the  soggy  highway.  But 
as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  darkening  sky  and, 
spreading  out  her  arms,  inhaled  a  deep  breath  of 
air,  the  look  of  hopelessness  in  her  face  changed  to 
resolute  calm.  In  the  somber  light  she  appeared 
pale  and  worn,  but  her  simple,  gray  gown,  open 
at  the  throat,  showed  a  contrasting  line  of  tan, 
her  rolled-up  sleeves  disclosed  strong,  sun-burned 
arms  and  her  erect,  well  moulded  figure  indicated 
vigorous  bodily  health.  Absorbed  in  thought,  she 
did  not  immediately  notice  the  saturating  mist, 
but  presently,  raising  her  hand  and  dusting  the 
glistening  moisture  from  her  hair,  she  slowly  un 
tied  a  broad  apron  from  her  waist,  and  fashion- 

[228] 


WAR 

ing  it  into  a  sort  of  hood,  stepped  from  the  por 
tico,  and  picking  her  way  among  the  obstructing 
wreckage,  to  the  edge  of  the  graveyard,  stopped 
and  whistled  softly. 

No  response  followed,  but,  as  she  waited,  the 
church  windows  shivered  and  rattled  again  to 
some  inaudible  concussion,  as  though  shaken  by 
a  ghostly  hand.  The  effect  was  mournful  and  un 
canny,  and  the  listener,  shuddering  involuntarily, 
whistled  again  louder  than  before.  Receiving  no 
reply  she  at  last  raised  her  hands  to  her  mouth 
and  called  sharply. 

"Sergeant!     Sergeant  Henry!" 

A  gruff  halloo  answered  this  summons  and 
from  a  dilapidated  wagon-shed  in  the  rear  of  the 
church  there  emerged  a  coatless,  hatless  and  bare 
footed  tatterdemalion,  his  long  gray  beard,  dis 
heveled  hair  and  general  appearance  suggesting 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  save  for  the  huge  cavalry  re 
volver  which  protruded  from  the  leather  holster 
hanging  from  his  belt.  For  a  few  moments  he 
remained  under  cover,  sleepily  knuckling  his  heavy 
eye-lids  and  then  shambled  forward,  halting  be 
fore  the  woman  with  an  inquiring  glance  and  the 
semblance  of  a  salute. 

"I  hate  to  trouble  you,  Sergeant,"  she  began, 
"but  I  want  a  couple  of  canteens  of  boiling  water 
[229] 


WAR 

and   I   daren't   leave   my   patient   long   enough 

"Ain't  he  gone  yet?" 

The  interruption  was  forbiddingly  impatient, 
but  the  woman  merely  shook  her  head. 

"No,  and  he  isn't  going  if  I  can  help  it,"  she 
responded,  calmly.  "You'll  hurry,  won't  you?" 

The  man  lazily  hitched  his  belt  as  though  he 
had  not  heard  the  question. 

"What  you  want  with  canteens  of  boiling 
water?"  he  inquired,  surlily. 

"I'm  going  to  use  them  for  foot  warmers.  The 
church  is  horribly  damp  and  I'm  afraid  the  Cap 
tain  will " 

"The  Captain  indeed !"  snorted  the  old  soldier, 
contemptuously.  "Where  d'y^ou  suppose  I'm 
goin'  to  git  tinware  for  sech  foolishness?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'm  sure  you  do." 

The  veteran's  hard  mouth  relaxed  into  some 
thing  like  a  smile. 

"Humph !"  he  muttered.  "You  think  I  kin  git 
anything  and  everything,  don't  yer?" 

The  woman  nodded  gravely. 

"I  know  you're  the  best  forager  in  the  army," 
she  responded  diplomatically.  "But  you  haven't 
brought  me  a  doctor  yet,"  she  added  reproach 
fully. 

[230] 


WAR 

"Ain't  none  passed  by." 

"I'm  sure  you  could  find  one  if  you  were  to  ride 
down  the  valley  a  bit." 

"And  git  gobbled  up  by  the  Rebs^  I  see  my 
self!" 

"Nonsense;  they're  retreating.'' 

"Well,  maybe  they  is,  but  sometimes  they  does 
it  in  a  circle.  And  then  who's  chasin'  who  I  wanter 
know?' 

No  reply  greeted  this  query  and  the  faint  smile 
on  the  woman's  lips  quickly  faded. 

"My  patient  is  terribly  low  to-night,  Sergeant," 
she  resumed  after  a  pause.  "If  you  could  find  a 
doctor " 

"He  ain't  got  no  more  use  for  doctors  than  a 
toad  has  for  side  pockets!"  interrupted  the  old 
man.  "Best  thing  he  kin  do  is  to  die  quick  and 
quiet,  for  I  kin  tell  you " 

"No,  you  can't,"  interposed  the  woman  sharply. 
"That's  treason  in  my  camp  and  I  won't  listen  to 
it.  Now  please  hurry  and  see  what  you  can  do 
for  me." 

The  veteran  leisurely  thrust  a  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  producing  a  crumpled  roll  of  paper 
extracted  a  small  wad  of  tobacco  and  stuffed  it 
into  his  cheek. 

[231] 


WAR 

"Major's  orders  was  to  stay  by  you,  Miss,"  he 
muttered. 

"The  Major's  orders  were  to  do  everything 
possible  for  my  patient,"  she  corrected.  "He's  got 
a  chance  and  I  want  to  make  the  most  of  it.  You 
know  it's  my  chance  too,"  she  added,  appealingly. 

Sergeant  Henry  stared  at  the  calm,  sweet  face 
confronting  him,  and  nodding  comprehendingly, 
swung  upon  his  heel. 

"You  nurses  are  more  trouble  to  me  than  all 
my  money'"  he  growled,  as  he  moved  away,  but 
there  was  less  harshness  in  his  voice  and  when  he 
spoke  again  his  tone  was  almost  kindly.  "Don't 
go  workin'  yourself  to  death  over  that  young 
feller,  Miss,"  he  continued,  "fer  I  kin  tell 
you " 

He  paused,  glancing  over  his  shoulder.  But  the 
woman  was  already  out  of  hearing  and  after 
watching  her  for  a  moment,  the  veteran  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  spat  reflectively  on  the  ground,  and 
slouched  off  toward  the  wagon-shed. 

The  church  was  dark  and  cold  and  the  nurse 
shivered  slightly  as  she  groped  her  way  over  the 
straw-covered  floor  to  a  low  cot  standing  near  the 
altar  and  peered  anxiously  into  the  face  of  a 
man  lying  apparently  in  a  deep  stupor.  For  a 
moment  she  listened  intently  to  his  labored  breath- 


WAR 

ing  and  then,  stealthily  slipping  her  hand  beneath 
his  blankets,  laid  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  wrist, 
and  with  her  other  hand  pressed  against  the  ar 
teries  of  her  own  temple,  counted  his  pulse.  A 
shade  of  discouragement  crossed  her  face  as  she 
noted  the  result  and  lighting  a  lantern,  she  swiftly 
drew  some  bandages  from  a  pail  standing  beside 
the  bed  and  wringing  them  out  laid  them  across 
the  patient's  forehead  and  breast.  The  shock  of 
the  cold  water  against  his  fevered  body  forced  a 
moan  from  the  sufferer's  lips  and  he  turned  rest 
lessly,  tossing  the  wet  cloths  aside.  Waiting  until 
he  quieted  again,  the  nurse  skilfully  readjusted 
them  and  looking  up  found  Sergeant  Henry  beside 
her,  canteens  in  hand,  and  a  look  of  suppressed 
excitement  in  his  face. 

"I've  more  if  you  want  'em,"  he  muttered  as 
she  nodded  her  thanks,  "and  good  news,  too,  if 
you  want  to  hear  it,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

The  woman  glanced  up  expectantly. 

'The  doctor5?"  she  whispered.  "Have  you  seen 
one?' 

"No,  but  I  seen  somebody  else,"  he  confided. 
"A  dispatch  bearer  passed  here  just  now.  We're 
drivin'  'em  like  sheep !  In  another  week  we'll  be 

around  'em  and  then God !  but  I  wanted  to  be 

in  at  the  death!  You  take  it  pretty  cool,"  he 
[233] 


WAR 

continued,  as  his  hearer  calmly  resumed  her  work. 
"Well,  I'll  relieve  you  at  ten." 

"Not  to-night,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  "I 
couldn't  leave  him  to-night." 

The  old  man  picked  up  the  lantern  and  holding 
it  above  his  head  peered  down  at  the  figure  on  the 
bed.  Then  he  unbuckled  his  belt  and  slipping  off 
his  revolver  laid  it  upon  a  chair. 

"There's  something  to  keep  you  company  in 
case  you  need  it,"  he  muttered,  pointing  to  the 
weapon  as  he  retreated. 

Left  to  herself  the  woman  bent  again  over  her 
patient  and  carefully  raising  his  head,  adjusted  it 
more  carefully  on  the  folded  blanket  which  served 
as  a  pillow.  The  flushed  face  into  which  she 
gazed  was  that  of  a  young  man  shockingly  aged 
and  wasted,  but  with  something  of  youthful 
beauty  still  remaining,  and,  as  she  smoothed  back 
the  thick,  brown  hair  from  his  forehead,  her  lips 
trembled  ominously. 

How  she  hated  the  barbarous  war  that  was 
wrecking  and  destroying  thousands  of  splendid 
lives  like  this !  She  had  claimed  that  there  was  a 
chance  for  her  patient,  but  what  chance  had  he  in 
her  inexperienced  hands'?  Had  she  not  failed  in 
every  crisis  she  had  faced  during  the  hideous  weeks 
that  lay  behind  her4?  The  Sergeant  had  under- 

[234] 


WAR 

stood  what  she  meant  by  saying  that  this  case  was 
her  chance.  Everybody  knew  her  humiliating 
record.  No  one  but  she,  however,  realized  the 
full  measure  of  her  failure.  The  brutal  realities 
of  war,  the  monstrous  indecencies  of  battle  had 
robbed  her,  not  only  of  courage,  but  of  patriotism. 
Every  feeling  of  loyalty  to  the  cause  which  had 
inspired  her  enthusiasm  in  the  well-ordered  pro 
bationary  hospitals  had  died  at  sight  of  the  mad 
house  scenes  enacted  in  the  first  field  hospital  to 
which  she  had  been  assigned.  Even  now,  when  she 
closed  her  eyes,  she  again  lived  through  that  riot 
of  death,  hearing  the  agonizing  sounds,  seeing  the 
contorted  faces,  breathing  the  poisonous  reek,  en 
during  the  appalling  inhumanities  that  had  frozen 
her  blood  and  threatened  her  reason.  Nothing  in 
her  previous  experience  had  even  suggested  the 
possibility  of  such  spectacles.  Yet  she  had  stood 
her  ground,  working  desperately  to  aid  the  drip 
ping  surgeons  at  their  awful  work,  until  a  stretcher 
bearer,  entering  with  something  that  had  once  been 
a  man,  had  trod  upon  the  raw  stumps  of  a  legless 
horror  and,  stumbling,  cursed  the  helpless  of 
fender.  Then,  for  a  time,  everything  had  been 
blotted  from  her  mind.  But  when  consciousness 
returned  she  had  felt  the  clutch  of  terror  tighten 
ing  upon  her  heart,  and  her  whole  being  had  re- 

[235] 


WAR 

volted  against  the  cruelty  of  war  with  a  passion 
which  no  will  power  could  control  or  love  of  coun 
try  conquer.  Again  and  again  she  had  reported 
for  duty,  but  each  time  she  had  miserably  faltered 
— once  during  an  operation  upon  a  conscious  man, 
strapped  hand  and  foot  upon  a  slippery  table,  be 
cause  he  could  not  yield  quickly  enough  to  the  in 
fluence  of  chloroform — once  at  sight  of  a  fright 
ful  blunder  committed  by  a  contract  doctor  and 
murderously  corrected ;  and  again  when  a  prisoner, 
crazed  with  agony,  had  struck  a  surgeon  with  one 
of  his  own  knives  and  been  instantly  shot  to 
death  by  the  infuriated  physician. 

Thenceforward  she  had  been  relegated  to  the 
loathsome  work  of  a  hospital  drudge  and  when, 
by  the  merest  chance,  she  had  at  last  been  recalled 
to  special  duty,  all  her  patriotic  impulses  had 
waned.  Even  the  news  of  victory  failed  to  thrill 
her  and,  as  she  sat  watching  the  man  intrusted  to 
her  care,  rebellious  questions  forced  themselves 
upon  her. 

.  .  .  Why  should  she  rejoice  in  the  ferocities  of 
victory  or  defeat?  Who  could  distinguish  friends 
from  foes  in  the  madmen  that  clutched  and  tore 
at  one  another's  throats?  All  were  alike  inhuman 
in  their  murderous  work.  .  .  .  The  sacred  cause? 
Both  sides  committed  atrocities  that  mocked  the 

[236] 


WAR 

words;  each  prayed  to  the  same  God  for  suc 
cess.  Could  any  cause,  or  country,  or  God  justify 
the  bestial  spectacles  she  had  witnessed,  the  de 
pravities  she  had  seen  committed  in  the  holiest  of 
names?  What  purpose  could  sanctify,  or  even 
condone,  the  orgies  that  had  confronted  her  on 
more  than  one  battlefield,  where  glutted  animals 
and  gorged  birds  completed  the  work  of  men 
lapsed  to  the  level  of  brutes'?  What  inspiration 
was  there  in  restoring  health  to  men  whose  only 
thought  was  to  use  their  strength  to  maim  or 
destroy  other  human  beings  as  worthy  or  worthless 
as  themselves  ?  If  she  did  not  save  this  man  whose 
life  was  now  burning  out  on  the  couch  before  her, 
perhaps  some  other  life  might  be  spared.  Did  not 
every  soldier's  hand  that  relaxed  in  death,  release 
a  brother's  throat?  Might  it  not  be  better,  as  her 
callous  old  bodyguard  had  said,  if  he  were  to  die 

just  as  quickly  as 

The  woman  passed  her  hand  across  her  brow 
as  though  to  thrust  back  the  wild  thoughts  that 
were  crowding  upon  her,  and  leaning  forward, 
touched  the  bandages  upon  her  patient's  head  and 
chest.  They  were  almost  dry  and  noting  this  she 
instantly  dipped  them  into  the  pail  again  and 
began  bathing  him  with  the  icy  water.  Once,  as 
she  worked,  the  man's  eyes  opened,  and  meeting 

[237] 


WAR 

his  dull  stare,  she  instinctively  smiled  at  him 
and  nodded  encouragingly.  It  was  only  for  an 
instant  that  his  gaze  rested  upon  her,  but  his  fleet 
ing  glance  of  hope  and  confidence  diverted  the 
current  of  her  thoughts  and  set  her  wondering,  for 
the  first  time,  why  he  had  been  selected  for  special 
care. 

Who  or  what  he  was  she  did  not  know.  All  she 
remembered  of  the  wild  night  that  had  witnessed 
her  recall  to  duty  was  the  merciless  bundling  of 
scores  of  wounded  and  dying  men  into  ambu 
lances;  the  shouting,  confusion,  and  wild  haste  of 
a  great  army  movement,  and  the  unexpected  sum 
mons  to  take  charge  of  this  desperate  case  and  to 
spare  no  effort  upon  it.  There  was  no  time  for 
questions  and  the  few  hurried  instructions  uttered 
by  the  medical  officer,  as  though  he  knew  of  her 
humiliating  record  and  did  not  expect  her  to  com 
prehend  him,  left  her  ill-prepared  for  an  emer 
gency.  At  first  she  had  not  realized  that  she  was 
to  be  left  behind,  but  when  the  last  ambulance 
had  jolted  away  with  its  tortured  load,  she  had 
breathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  and  turned  her 
attention  to  her  patient.  Except  for  the  blue  uni 
form  of  an  infantry  captain  which  he  had  worn 
when  first  carried  into  the  church,  she  had  no  clue 
to  his  identity;  but  one  glance  at  the  wound  in 

[238] 


WAR 

his  breast  warned  her  that  she  had  been  assigned 
to  a  forlorn  hope.  A  cruelly  hasty  operation  had 
supplemented  the  work  of  a  bullet  and  pneumonia 
was  fast  completing  it.  Again  and  again,  during 
the  long  days  and  nights  that  followed,  she  had 
thought  that  life  was  extinct;  but  nature  had  re 
sponded  to  her  efforts  and  death  had  been  averted, 
encouraging  her  to  hope  that  the  splendid  vitality 
of  youth  might  yet  withstand  the  strain  that  was 
being  made  upon  it.  For  the  last  twelve  hours, 
however,  the  fever  had  been  gaming  and,  as  she 
watched  the  man  gasping  in  the  vault-like  atmos 
phere  of  the  church,  she  felt  the  end  approaching. 

.  .  .  Well,  that  would  complete  her  record  of 
failure.  She  had  not  been  able  to  save  even  one 
life.  And  what  was  worse,  she  was  not  sure  she 
cared  to.  Why  was  that  worse*?  Existence  in 
a  world  that  not  only  tolerated  but  encouraged 
wholesale  murder  was  not  so  great  a  boon.  Surely 
the  grave  held  no  terrors  for  those  who  had  lived 
through  the  nightmare  horrors  of  war.  The  only 
restful  faces  she  could  remember  were  those  of  the 
dead.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  the  patient's  irregular  breathing 

caught  her  ear  and,  leaning  forward,  she  counted 

the  tell-tale  respirations.     Then  her  hand  flew  to 

his  wrist  and  the  thready  pulse  warned  her  that 

[239] 


WAR 

there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Raising  his  head  she 
forced  some  brandy  down  his  throat,  but  at  the 
same  moment  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  bandage  ly 
ing  across  his  chest  and  her  own  heart  almost 
stopped  beating.  One  glance  at  the  spreading 
stain  on  the  white  linen  was  sufficient  to  tell  her 
what  was  happening.  His  wound  had  opened  and 
the  man  was  rapidly  bleeding  to  death.  Drop 
ping  upon  her  knees  beside  the  cot  she  strove  des 
perately  to  staunch  the  flow  of  blood,  summoning 
all  her  small  resources  and  bitterly  upbraiding 
herself  for  her  incompetence. 

...  If  she  knew  a  little— a  very  little  more, 
she  might  easily  check  this  hemorrhage!  Why 
had  she  not  better  prepared  herself  for  such  an 
emergency?  Oh,  the  hours  she  had  wasted  when 
she  might  have  learned  how  to  meet  it !  .  .  .  She 
was  ignorant — criminally  ignorant  of  even  the 
rudiments  of  nursing.  If  this  man  died  she  would 
be  responsible.  She  would  have  killed  him  just  as 
certainly  as  though  she  had  knowingly  sought  his 
life.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  some  qualified  per 
son  would  now  be  tending  him.  It  was  criminal 
of  the  surgeons  to  have  placed  him  in  her  hands ! 
They  knew  she  had  had  practically  no  experience. 
Only  once  in  all  her  hospital  work  had  she  .  .  . 
What  was  it  she  had  seen  them  do  in  that  case? 
[240] 


WAR 

.  .  .  Yes,  Yes — she  had  done  that!  .  .  .  And 
this  too!  .  .  .  But  what  else?  What  else!  She 
must  remember !  .  .  . 

Slower  and  slower  throbbed  the  pulse — quicker 
and  quicker  came  the  gasping  respirations.  She 
could  almost  feel  the  ebbing  life  slipping  through 
her  hands. 

.  .  .  But  it  should  not  slip!  This  was  her 
chance.  This  was  a  fight  for  life.  He  should  not 
die !  .  .  .  Now  she  remembered !  Now  it  all 
came  back  to  her !  ...  It  was  very  simple — only 
she  must  think  quickly — not  get  frightened  and 
never  give  up  until — !  .  .  .  Why  did  the  church 
seem  so  deathly  quiet?  Had  he  ceased  breath 
ing?  Was  it  over  already?  .  .  . 

She  hastily  pressed  her  fingers  ^against  an  artery 
and  feeling  the  faint  responsive  throb,  tore  a  sheet 
into  strips  and  winding  them  tightly  about  the 
patient's  limbs,  grasped  the  foot  of  the  cot  and 
raised  it,  exerting  all  her  strength  to  hold  it  at  a 
slant  and  control  the  circulation  of  her  patient's 
blood.  Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed  and  the 
desperate  struggle  continued.  Every  muscle  in 
her  body  ached,  and  her  over-wrought  nerves 
throbbed  as  though  something  in  her  brain  was  on 
the  point  of  bursting.  But  she  dared  not  rest 
even  for  an  instant.  Behind  the  black  shadows 

[241] 


WAR 

surrounding  her,  Death  seemed  to  be  lurking, 
watching  for  the  moment  when  exhaustion  should 
force  her  to  yield  the  prey. 

Again  and  again  she  fancied  a  cold  breath 
against  her  cheek — and  beyond  the  waving  veil 
of  mist  that  swung  in  the  lantern's  glow  she 
seemed  to  see  bodies  of  men  lying  upon  the  floor, 
twisted  and  tumbled  in  horrible,  fantastic  atti 
tudes  as  she  had  seen  them  upon  the  battle  fields. 
She  strained  her  eyes  to  pierce  the  floating  vapor 
which  sometimes  screened  her  like  a  curtain  and 
sometimes  receded,  hoping  to  solve  the  terrifying 
mystery.  But  the  inert  forms  cluttering  the  floor 
would  not  fade. 

.  .  .  Had  the  dead  who  had  been  carried  from 
the  gruesome  hospital  crawled  from  their  shallow 
graves  to  this  sanctuary*?  Had  the  place  become 
a  charnel  house?  .  .  .  How  horribly  still  they 
lay!  Was  not  Death  satisfied  with  that  grim 
harvest?  Why  should  the  one  life  entrusted  to  her 
care  be  coveted  ?  He  should  not  be  surrendered ! 
She  would  fight  as  long  as  breath  remained  in  her 
body !  And  until  then  he  was  safe !  She  willed 
that  he  should  live!  The  power  was  hers!  She 
defied  Death !  .  .  . 

Her  fingers  touched  the  patient's  hands  as  she 
lowered  the  cot.  They  no  longer  had  the  icy 

[242] 


WAR 

chill  that  had  numbed  her  heart,  and  the  fresh 
bandage  she  applied  showed  a  less  rapidly  spread 
ing  stain.  Was  it  possible  that  the  hemorrhage 
had  been  checked  ?  With  a  gasp  of  hope  she  again 
lifted  the  cot,  while  from  every  corner  of  the 
church  dark,  shadowy  hands  seemed  groping  to 
touch  the  coverlet  and  bear  her  down.  Nearer 
and  nearer  they  swung  toward  her,  heavier  and 
heavier  grew  the  strain  upon  her  arms,  until  it 
seemed  they  must  be  torn  from  their  sockets. 

...  If  those  tireless,  grimly-reaching  hands 
would  pause,  even  for  a  heart  beat,  she  could  rest 
and  recover  her  strength.  But  once  they  reached 
her  burden  she  would  be  helpless !  .  .  .  She  could 
not  keep  up  the  struggle  much  longer.  Her  back 
was  breaking!  .  .  .  Another  moment  and  the 
greedy  hands  would  clutch  their  prey,  clawing  at 
his  wound.  .  .  .  There!  It  was  almost  over. 
But  she  had  fallen  fighting!  The  huddled  dead, 
glaring  at  her  from  the  floor,  could  testify  that 
she  had  not  yielded!  .  .  .  Ah — it  was  ended! 
His  wound  had  opened  again.  She  could  feel  the 
fresh  blood  on  her  hands !  .  .  . 

Panting  and  exhausted  she  sank  against  the  cot, 
her  nerveless  arms  drooping  at  her  side,  her  head 
buried  in  the  tumbled  coverings.  For  some 
seconds  she  lay  there  without  moving,  listening 

[243] 


WAR 

to  the  loud  throbbing  of  her  heart,  and  then,  slow 
ly  raising  her  head,  gazed  wonderingly  about  her. 
The  silent  church  was  flooded  with  moonlight  and 
the  swaying  branches  of  the  vines  against  the  win 
dows  were  swinging  long,  black  shadows  back 
and  forth  across  the  floor  littered  with  bundles  of 
straw  and  cushions.  For  a  moment  she  continued 
staring  at  the  scene  and  then  springing  to  her 
feet  thrust  her  hands  into  the  light.  They  were 
moist  but  not  with  blood !  Like  a  flash  she  turned 
to  the  man  lying  upon  the  couch  and  passed  her 
fingers  over  his  brow.  It  was  beaded  with  per 
spiration  ! 

The  cry  of  joy  which  rose  to  her  lips  startled 
the  patient  and  his  closed  eyelids  twitched  con 
vulsively,  quieting  as  she  laid  her  hand  soothingly 
upon  them. 

.  .  .  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  now  in 
idle  rejoicing !  She  must  press  her  advantage, 
watch  every  opportunity,  give  no  pause  to  the 
enemy!  The  slightest  slip  might  yet  undo  her 
work!  The  fight  was  still  all  before  her  if  she 
was  to  crown  it  with  triumph!  .  .  .  Why  had 
she  never  before  felt  the  thrill  that  now  revitalized 
her  energies  and  glorified  her  task?  Was  it  the 
possibility  of  her  victory  over  disease  and 
death?  .  .  . 

[244] 


WAR 

The  patient  sighed  wearily  and  turning  toward 
her,  answered  her  inquiring  gaze  with  a  faint 
smile  of  recognition.  Then  his  eyes  closed  drow 
sily  again  and  her  hand  stole  once  more  to  his 
pulse.  It  was  holding  steadily  and  the  watcher's 
face  lit  up  with  hope  as  she  set  to  work  anew. 

...  If  she  could  save  this  life,  never  again 
would  she  allow  disgust  or  intolerance  to  master 
her!  Terrible  as  war  was,  she  had  no  right  to 
condemn  it  as  inhuman  and  without  justification. 
Wiser  heads  than  hers  had  failed  to  avert  it,  brav 
er  hearts  than  hers  daily  confronted  its  terrors  un 
afraid.  Was  it  not  perhaps  a  plague,  bred  of 
the  centuries,  which  had  tolerated  and  encouraged 
human  slavery — a  visitation  upon  the  people  for 
their  sin*?  Might  not  its  bloodshed  and  barbari 
ties  be  purging  the  nation  of  disease?  Yes,  yes! 
That  was  it!  It  was  just  as  truly  a  conflict  with 
disease  and  death  as  this  life  and  death  struggle 
which  was  teaching  her  humility  and  charity  .  .  . 
Was  her  patient  sleeping?  .  .  .  Not  yet,  but 
every  muscle  of  his  body  was  relaxed  and  the  fever 
had  broken.  His  breathing  was  light  and  regu- 
'lar.  .  .  . 

She  procured  fresh  blankets  from  a  bundle  on 
the  floor,  skilfully  substituted  them  for  the  old 
ones,  and  resettling  his  pillow  spread  her  apron 

[245] 


WAR 

over  it,  laying  his  head  more  comfortably  upon 
the  cool,  clean  linen.  If  he  could  only  sleep! 
.  .  .  She  tiptoed  to  the  bedside  and  shielding  the 
light  of  the  lantern  sank  down  beside  the  cot 
watching  the  haggard  face. 

.  .  .  War!  Civilization's  struggle  against 
disease  and  death!  How  had  she  ever  lost  sight 
of  that  glorifying  aspect"?  She  must  never  forget 
it  again !  All  the  real  progress  of  the  world  had 
come  of  such  convulsions !  .  .  . 

She  bent  forward  once  more  intently  listening. 
.  .  .  Yes,  he  was  sleeping!  .  .  .  She  must  not 
stir  now  .  .  .  nor  breathe !  .  .  . 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  swinging  shadows 
on  the  floor — slower  and  slower  their  pendulous 
movement. 

The  first  gray  light  of  dawn  stealing  through 
the  windows  found  the  man  still  sleeping,  and  the 
face  of  the  watcher  transfigured  with  triumph. 

Outside  the  land  was  ablaze  with  the  glory  of 
the  rising  sun,  wondrous  colors  spreading  in  rapid 
succession  over  the  fields,  now  purple — now  crim 
son  and  now  gold.  On  the  horizon  floated  a  cloud 
of  dust,  billowing  with  every  breath  of  the  morn 
ing  breeze  and  finally  lifting  to  disclose  a  distant 
column  of  marching  men.  Nearer  and  nearer  they 

[246] 


WAR 

approached,  unmasking  another  column  farther 
away,  and  then  another  and  another  moving  in 
parallel  lines — great  masses  of  men  and  horses, 
their  arms  and  accouterments  glittering  in  the 
sun,  their  guidons  flapping  bright  bits  of  color, 
their  flags  showing  bravely  against  the  sky — an 
army  sweeping  forward,  the  ground  shaking  un 
der  its  mighty  tread.  There  was  victory  in  the 
springy  step,  the  rapid  pace,  the  slanting  banners 
— in  every  aspect  of  the  passing  host,  and  the 
sound  of  a  familiar  chant  rolled  triumphantly 
across  the  fields : 

"He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall 

never  call  defeat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 

his  judgment  seat. 
Oh!  be  swift  my  soul  to  answer  him — be 

jubilant  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on" 

Leaning  against  the  white  columns  of  the 
church  portico  the  tired  nurse  pieced  out  the 
words  as  she  listened.  How  splendidly  they  in 
terpreted  her  thought!  She  drew  herself  up  and 
watched  the  scene  exultantly. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  upon  the  road  turned  her 
gaze  from  the  fields  to  the  highway.  A  little 

[247] 


WAR 

group  of  horsemen  was  approaching,  among  whom 
she  recognized  Sergeant  Henry.  So!  He  had 
found  a  doctor  at  last  had  he?  Well,  Mr.  Sur 
geon  had  come  too  late  to  rob  her  of  her  triumph ! 
.  .  .  They  were  bringing  an  ambulance,  were 
they?  .  .  .  Probably  the  Sergeant  had  reported 
that  she  was  incompetent  to  manage  a  desperate 
case  and  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  transfer  the 
patient  to  a  hospital !  Well,  he  would  see !  They 
should  all  see!  And  she  had  something  worth 
showing!  She  would  say  nothing  until  the  sur 
geon  discovered  for  himself  what  had  happened 
and  then — Oho! 

Her  heart  laughed  joyously  within  her. 


"You  feel  you  cannot  come  with  us  ?" 

The  woman  leaning  against  the  wrecked  door 
way  gazed  at  the  travel-stained  officer  with  a 
dazed  expression  as  though  she  did  not  grasp  his 
question.  .  .  .  What  was  he  saying?  Well,  it 
did  not  matter.  Nothing  mattered  now.  .  .  . 

"I  would  wait  if  my  orders  permitted,  but  the 
wagon  trains  will  be  up  before  long  and  you  can 
come  then.  Here  is  an  order  for  your  transporta 
tion." 

The  nurse's  fingers  closed  mechanically  on  the 

[248] 


WAR 

slip  of  paper.  But  she  gave  no  sign  of  compre 
hending. 

"And  I  want  to  say," — the  man  paused,  grop 
ing  for  words — "I  want  you  to  know  I  understand 
and  am  sorry.  Good-bye." 

Dark  clouds  were  moving  rapidly  across  the 
sky  and  the  woman's  eyes  followed  the  big  black 
shadows  racing  over  the  sunlit  church-yard  until 
the  clatter  of  hoofs  died  away.  Then  she  slowly 
sank  upon  the  doorstep  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the  yellow 
flag,  which,  having  almost  flapped  itself  free  in 
the  early  morning  breeze,  now  hung  like  a  long, 
limp  rag  from  the  end  of  its  staff.  Not  a  sound 
broke  the  desolate  hush.  On  a  broken  pew  in 
the  church-yard  a  snake  slowly  uncoiled  and  slid 
ing  noiselessly  to  the  grass,  wriggled  to  shelter, 
as  a  distant  mutter  of  thunder  heralded  the  com 
ing  storm,  and  the  trees  on  the  horizon  swayed  low 
under  the  massing  clouds. 

The  woman  raised  her  head  as  the  first  fierce 
gust  of  wind  reached  her  and,  noting  the  lowering 
sky,  rose  and  gazed  after  the  distant  ambulance 
creeping  away  with  her  patient,  its  broad  wheels 
grating  against  the  boulders  in  the  road  and  lifting 
over  them  like  big,  clumsy  feet. 

...  So  this  was  the  end!  The  end  of  her 
[249] 


WAR 

victory.  Her  victory!  Ha!  That  must  move 
the  gods  to  mirth !  Her  patient  was  a  spy  who'd 
be  hanged  in  a  day  or  two  at  most ! 

.  .  .  What  had  the  officer  said4?  That  she  had 
done  well — wonderfully  well.  But  that  this  busi 
ness  of  nursing  wounded  spies  into  condition  for 
execution  did  not  appeal  to  him.  ...  To  whom, 
dear  God,  did  such  a  hellish  thing  appeal?  Yet 
that  had  been  her  business — that  was  the  chance 
which  war  had  given  her !  She  had  been  permit 
ted  to  save  a  life — for  the  gallows !  Her  victory 
over  death  was  a  mockery.  One  of  the  practical 
jokes  of  war!  .  .  .  Well,  she  could  laugh!  Not 
all  the  winds  of  the  world  could  stifle  her !  They 
should  blow  the  sound  of  her  laughter  about  the 
earth  and  send  peal  upon  peal  of  it  to  heaven! 
Oho — oo !  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  she  faced  the  furious  rush  of  the 
wind,  her  eyes  closed,  her  hands  clenched,  her 
face  contorted,  her  clothes  and  hair  at  the  mercy 
of  the  tearing  blast.  Then  she  retreated  slowly, 
backing  into  the  cavernous  doorway  behind  her. 

The  ambulance  bumped  and  jolted  forward,  its 
inert  burden  slipping  and  sliding  with  every  rise 
and  fall  of  the  hampered  wheels.  Suddenly  Ser 
geant  Henry  reined  in  his  horse  and,  turning  in 

[250] 


WAR 

his  saddle  toward  the  coming  storm,  sat  listening 
intently.  Then  he  spurred  furiously  to  the  little 
escort  of  cavalrymen,  and  saluted  the  officer. 

"Will  you  halt  the  prisoner  for  a  minute,  Lieu 
tenant?"  he  whispered.  "I  think  I  heard  a  shot 
and — and  I  left  my  revolver  with  that  woman  in 
the  church !" 


The  End. 


[250 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAY  29  1935 


..• 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


H645 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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